Ohio River Blues

I've now lived here longer than I've ever lived anywhere; and it's a fine place to be, where the hollows feed their creeks into the river. Dendritically and forcefully when conditions are ripe. Nothing I could say would make it better. I love the way the debris field spreads across the road, the way someone with a chainsaw has cleared a path. There's a new Pynchon novel. No one writes better in the language. Ever, to my way of thinking. I reread his early short fiction today, "Slow Learner", and, except to pee, or to make myself baked beans and a fried egg on toast, I never left my writing chair. This is true. I told B, yesterday morning, when he came over, that I was well, and that I was working, after a fashion, but it was slow going. I'd spent twelve hours writing thirteen sentences, and several of those were quite short, two nouns and a verb. The dog died and I took a train to Memphis. The dog died and my pick-up won't start. The dog died and my lady doesn't love me anymore. I could go on. I didn't find anything of value, I got my feet wet, the late season bugs are a pain in the ass, I got those Ohio River Blues again. Sometimes you can clear that up with a wee dram of Irish and a couple of smokes, but sometimes you have to kill yourself. Beat your head against a book or drown in a grader ditch. Last rites. There would be finger-food. A force-meat. Pickles. Some very hot peppers. The guests get very drunk on Ronnie's distillation and several of them sleep in the yard. A manner of passing. Those Ohio River Blues again, lord god spare me, those Ohio River Blues again.