Simple Pleasures

Saturday, the incessant clatter of life in even a small town was getting to me. I can hole up at the museum, the thick walls offer some protection, but the sirens and helicopters put me off my feed. Listening to one of The Cello Suites on the way home, the D Minor, in the transcription by Edgar Meyer for double bass; got to the top of the driveway and just sat there, for several minutes, while the piece finished. The Jeep was warm, from the trip home, and the seat was heated, I rolled down the window, and smoked a cigaret. When the music was over, I turned off the CD player, and sat there for a good while, listening, as the natural sounds became audible. I often sit on the back stoop and listen to bugs. At times this can rival the very best jazz. I come inside and turn on Black Dell, it's quite cool in the house, in the fifties, and she likes it like that, she hardly makes a sound, beyond me tapping out a sentence. I build a small fire in the cookstove and the cast iron makes some noises as it expands. But it's very quiet, for the most part, and peaceful. I need the peace and quiet more than I ever have before. It allows me to unfold my mind. I did call my friend Joel, because I needed to hear his laugh, and because he's my mentor when it comes to cracking jokes (and farts) in tight spaces. You and your sweetie in a mummy bag. Hard to hide the warts. It occurs to me that those halcyon years on Cape Cod were fundamentally important. Not that I stopped but that I started learning. Whatever was meant. Lovely day, 55 degrees. Just above freezing this morning, so it must have been a hard freeze down on Mackletree. Well into my bacon, potato, and egg breakfast weekend. I read too much yesterday and today, resulting in a smallish headache. Read a review of a new show in NYC of the work of Balthus, just after mentioning to Charlotte that one of the Trapley paintings in the Renaissance show reminded me of him. I Iove Balthus, his silent film approach. Slapstick. I tend to defend losing causes. I haven't been a Cubs's fan, all these years, for nothing. Some rules: never cut short a session, always pinch-hit in the bottom of the ninth, and never, ever, admit to fault.