Up and Up

A great conversation with the Wittgenstein Plumber, still in decent sprit, and still makes me laugh, though he's suffering kidney failure. That conversation leads me to calling Diane, a mutual friend, and we spend a half-hour, catching up. The consensus is that I can read from a lap-top computer while sitting. Suits me, because it's more of a story-teller mode, and I, essentially, just tell stories. Took me years to realize that. Nothing arcane about it. I cross my legs, take a sip of bourbon, and mention something that might have happened. Old Tom and the two green mules, or that time the hogs got loose in the garden. Chickens are the worst, they destroy evidence, with their silly prancing, and geese are actually dangerous. Remind me to tell you about the incident with the swan. It's not my fault some things can't fly. I can't fly. The swan, the girl, and the honey. No: The Fox, The Girl, And The Honey. I prefer the fox, swans always seem artificial. Talking with Joel, and I remembered something Wittgenstein had said, took me several hours to find it, Zettel, 393. "It is easy to imagine and work out in full detail events which, if they actually came about, would throw us out in all our judgments." Seems about right. Minor-epiphanies, like what color huddie, or do you stand in the rain. Six of one, you know. Whether to ford the creek or turn back, whether to face the demons or not. I often get a wee dram and roll a smoke, it doesn't matter what time of day or night, and fix breakfast, potatoes, sausage, eggs, toast, I glance at the clock, because I'm up and about, but I don't know if that 7:24 is morning or night. It's easy enough to orient yourself, turn on the radio, or you can just monitor whether it's getting darker or lighter. I remind myself to pay attention. I write very slowly, but all the time, in the last 36 hours I wrote 42 lines, and I don't know whether it's day or night. That's what you have to give up.