Crazy

Patsy Cline running through my head. Maybe a Willie Nelson tune. Barely possible, but I think I read somewhere, I have good reason to believe, that she sang some of his songs. It could be fiction. Sara and I were discussing the Carter painting "Serenity" and realized we both had our separate fictions for the origins of that painting. She surprised me by asking if there was any way she could help me with the "Janitor College" book, and it wasn't until later that I realized there was. I need to get TR to download that file so that she can read it and see what she thinks. My rather glaring one-inch discrepancy might well go un-noticed, in the Renaissance show, because there's so much to look at. I'll correct it, of course, because of my sense of order, not that it matters. Besides, re-hanging something is not the same as hanging, G..Spenser Brown. I can do the math. We're so often wrong; even the giants fall. It's a killing field, stand back, for a minute, and look at it. Especially now that it's fall, and the weather is closing in. If we were having to judge anything at face value. The Phlox is lovely, and I'm collecting some late season mushrooms, that are fine, on toast, with baked beans. Why not? A comet could crash tomorrow. The grader ditch, just above the critical culvert, is stuffed with leaves and silt, and we have to dig it out, before the drainage crosses the road. I'm not looking forward to this, because I'll probably throw out my back, but it has to be done. Slept the sleep of the dead. Awoke in my sleeping bag on top of the bed, considered life for half-an-hour, then got up, heated water, took a sponge-bath, washed my hair, and made the trip to town. Stopped at Vic's Barber Shop and got a much needed haircut, went to the library and got a Gutterson I had missed "The Other". He's a good writer. Went to the museum and watched a cooking show on Hulu. And, as I was officially not working, a beer with lunch at the pub. Next time I go there I'm going to take my own pita bread, because those damned tortilla chips are just too salty. Lady Staff Day there, Astra in the kitchen, Christine and Lindsay out front. I was early, for the lunch trade, and Lindsay was sitting on a stool down at the serving end of the bar. I did a double take, because I'd never seen her with her hair down. It's lovely, fine, blond hair that just hangs straight down. I told she was particularly fetching today. She got up and went around the back of the bar, chatted with me about sports and small towns all through my lunch. When she wasn't serving. Said she'd never been called fetching. Christine would come over, Astra came out of the kitchen to banter a bit. Astra is one smart lady, takes no prisoners, nor suffers fools lightly. I like her. When I got back to the museum, the bosses were there, everything was done, everything was under control, and, mid-afternoon, I decided I just wanted to get home, I didn't want to go to an opening. I'm not contractually obligated to attend openings, and I just didn't feel I could deal with a crowd. So I came home. It was a smart move. I got home safely, and I'm safely within the parameters of all the food groups: I have whiskey and tobacco and a dozen eggs. A kind of test run, I make an omelet with some mushrooms and a sprinkling of cheese; it's very good. The toast I eat with a knife and fork, because I've slathered it with a hot red-onion jam that is excellent. It's so very good, you should try this at home. A walnut of butter, slice a large red onion into quartered slices, very thin, and cook them for maybe an hour; if you're reading a book at the island, this isn't a problem; then add something sweet, honey or sorghum molasses, and stir it constantly into a mass. This is good with any meat, hell, it's good on cabbage. Not to mention toast. And you can put a fried egg on anything. The Gutterson novel engages me in the early evening, as it concerns two friends, one of whom becomes a hermit, in the Gnostic tradition, and it's difficult to not draw parallels. I wanted to stay for the opening, but I just couldn't; I wanted, more, to come home and write a paragraph. Which I've done now, and feel much better. The crass and ass-kissing ways of the world matter less to me when I'm sitting at my desk, considering a specific comma. It's a folly, of course, but it keeps me off the streets.