Dedication

I have no idea why people do what they do. My own motivations are a mystery. All day today, my left hip was giving me problems, it hurt so bad, coming out of the store, I had to lean against the side of the building; and my feet are a mess, so many broken toes. I only mention them in passing, because sometimes I can barely walk, and I'm surprised people complain about what they have to do. At a certain age, 42, you should no longer be concerned about what other people think, and should just be getting on with your life, whether it's dressing as a French Whore or looking at tadpoles through a magnifying glass. I have trouble, even with my internal dialogue, when it comes to facing myself. I'd rather not; I'd rather, always, focus on something outside, two crows talking, or a tick sucking my blood. Wait. Slow down. Often, the only course through a debris field is wading through shit.; I don't recommend it, but sometimes it's the only way to stay in touch. The first thing I do is scramble three eggs, with a caramelized onion and enough jalapeno peppers to make my eyes water. I make a very dry piece of toast, slather it with butter and jam. It rains on and on. The radio announces flash flood alerts for my county, and I know that Upper Twin and Mackletree creeks have both slipped their banks, thank god I stopped at Kroger for supplies. First thing, when the power came back on, I made a crock pot of grits. The cool rain has lowered temperatures and I can start a small fire in the cookstove and vent most of the heat, through a dampered arrangement, without heating the body of the stove. For the 99% percent of you that don't cook on a woodstove, it probably doesn't make any sense, but I don't want any more heat than necessary, and I can still fry a round of polenta, cook an egg, and perk a pot of coffee. This time of year, I only burn small oak chairs that I smash up with a hatchet, or hickory limbs I've dried for several years and cut with a bow-saw. You live this way, you get particular about your wood. A cup of tea might require just a bundle of twigs. I make these bundles in a gig I devised that allows me to slip a couple of cords of hemp around a collection of sticks. I don't have a name for them, but I'm sure there is one. To be politically correct, I'm just trying to boil water. And fuck me, I don't have a dial tone. Talk to you later. Power's back but the phone's out.