Unholy Ruckus

I swear to god, I have enough trouble sleeping, so a pack of feral dogs at midnight is something I don't need. I'm nothing if not-sentimental and send them packing with a couple of well-placed marbles from the Wrist-Rocket. One of them, a pit-bull cross, wants to give me some trouble, but I dissuaded him with a shot to the ear. Still, though they are gone, they got me fully awake, and that's the worst of it. Means getting a drink and rolling a smoke and considering my place in the pecking order. Scott had made a great vinaigrette, sweet, with a touch of jalapeno jam, and I toss some, with baby spinach leaves, halved grape tomatoes, and a smoked mozzarella I'd held aside. It's so good I feel guilty. I read over the pages I'm going to read at the lodge tomorrow. Then sit for an hour or so, in the sunlight, on the sofa, thinking about what I'd just read. Very nice pork tenderloin sandwich, with horse-radish sauce, and a small bowl of chili. Joel, The Wittgenstein Plumber, calls from Atlanta, and he sounds upbeat. When I knocked over the three piles of books, because Modigliani, stuck out into the travel lane. I can explain that. Read more...

Food

Crazy days. Lost track of time. It's difficult to wrap my brain around the last three cycles. Tuesday was the endless dart tournament, when we took over the front room at the pub, then Wednesday, we made a couple of crock-pots of chili, at the museum, one vegetarian. It's true, that if everyone gets hungry enough, eating is not a problem. We went over to Kroger, bought a game of Scrabble and a deck of cards. Scott won the dart tournament with TWO bull's-eyes, and I considered killing him, but I redeemed myself at the Scrabble board. I hadn't played a game of any sort in thirty years, nor considered the competitive spirit. TR stayed late with us, at the museum, because we were amusing. B came over, with a former lover of mine, and her partner, and I did the docent thing. I'm not unbeatable at Scrabble, but I'm very good. B said the driveway was passable, and we made plans for the holiday. They'd meet me at the museum, having been to Kroger, and we'd aim for the ridge. Which we achieved, and I built a fire, because the house was very cold, and we needed the stove to be hot. Rhea had requested corn bread, and I had promised a key lime pie, so I did those first; Scott jumped right in, preparing root vegetables for roasting, while I rubbed a couple of pork tenderloins with a mixture of spices and nuts that Rhea had ground with a mortar and pestle. At some point Scott screamed out "Old school!" which I considered a compliment. He made a meringue, for the Key Lime pie, to die for, and we roasted the vegetables and cooked the tenderloins, and it was a epic meal. I sent them back down the hill with a couple of LED flashlights, some heart-felt hugs and a couple of kisses, parting is such sweet sorrow. Really, dude, I have a life. Once I was a weaver, after that, I grew shallots, whatever turned the dime. You might assume one thing, but it could be another. I was up early this morning, woodpeckers drumming on the trees; B came over, to make sure everyone had gotten away safely. The extended Richards' family gathering was huge, filling a barn, three tables of food. B said there was one turkey that never even got sliced. A whole left-over turkey. Imagine. I was confronted with a refrigerator completely stuffed with left-overs, food for days. I got a good fire going, and heated water. Rhea had kept up with washing the dishes, but there was still a sink full of serving platters, cook-wear, and utensils. I had warned everyone off from cleaning my cast-iron, and there were three or four pieces that needed to be cleaned and re-tempered with walnut oil in the oven. Samara called about noon, just as I was finishing the clean-up, and they were already back in Denver, preparing for a nap, before an evening performance. She said it was a great visit, the dart tournament, taking over the front room at the pub; the Scrabble marathon, over bowls of chili at the museum. I napped too, then split a few rounds of firewood. By late afternoon most of the snow is melted, before it gets below freezing again, and the house is warm as toast; the sky is a spangle of pinks and oranges, and I strip down to long-underwear and sweat-pants. I make a tenderloin and roasted root-vegetable frittata, with the left-over egg yolks, that is to die for, and don't make a dent in the left-overs. Life on the ridge. Read more...

Stranded

Best intentions, but no way to get out to my house and up the driveway. Pegi called the museum this morning, from her house, and said she couldn't get down off her hill, that the ground was covered in sleet and hail, and she lives out beyond me, but at a lower elevation. Samara, Rhea, and Scott got to the museum at noon and we went to the pub for a beer and lunch, then a couple of hours of me doing the docent thing then back to the pub for coffee in the front room. Comfortable space, sofas, a TV, and Barb had offered it. So we just stayed there, as the sleet turned to snow, and threw darts all afternoon, then a leisurely dinner, lively conversation the whole time. It was an interesting and fun day; recounting the past and bringing Scott up to speed. The girls wanted some of the stories from my past. Scott told some cooking tales, we exchanged some recipes, or not recipes exactly, more like a discussion about methods and combinations. I'd go outside, occasionally, and curse the weather that he and I couldn't spend some time cooking together. We may yet have the chance, but the snow is accumulating. Weather in which I would either stay on the ridge, or in town, but not attempt the commute. The ridge is nearly a thousand feet higher than town, and it makes a huge difference in accumulation. A half-inch of rain in Portsmouth at 33 or 34 degrees, is four inches of snow at 31 degrees. This is when winter laughs at me about not getting those first and last frosts when the cold rolls down into the hollows. This is serious cold, on a ridge-top, without a windbreak. A trip to the woodshed is about all you want to do outdoors in weather like this. I seriously doubt that I have either electricity or a phone at the house. I could get there, if I was alone, in the Jeep; carry a light pack up the hill, I've done it a thousand times. Light the oil lamps, a couple of candles for the flicker, crank up the wood stove, put on either a pot of chili or a stew, and curl up, under a blanket, with a book. You could say this was a specialty of mine. Get comfortable and read, it sometimes involves a hat and gloves. I need to get some ear-muffs. I'd never thought about them before, but I need some now. My ears are cold, I'm growing old, and my hearing isn't what it used to be. Read more...

Off Line

I'll probably be gone for a couple of days. The girls got in, with Samara's partner, Scott. I met them at the museum. Charlotte and Sara were there, with the graphic designer, to work on the catalog for the Alan Gough retrospective, so we visited for a few minutes, then went over to the pub. I'd already rented their room at the Super 8, and gotten their keys. The weather isn't co-operating at all, and I was afraid to go home, lest I get trapped, so Rhea agreed to stay in the motel room. We're right on the edge of this storm, just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. We might have to stay another day in town. Great to see them, and we lingered over a beer and dinner. I like Scott. What's not to like, he's bright, a cook, and works in theater. We agreed to meet at the museum tomorrow, and come up with a plan, if all else fails, we'll eat and drink all day. I would so much rather be out at my place, but they can't afford to get stranded, they leave early Friday morning and have a show in Denver that night. They leave so early, Scott's going to leave me one of the keys, and I should be able to get into town for a shower-bath-shower before check-out time. I love rooking the system Nothing better than birdcalls to rock the boat. Read more...

Smoke Chase

Bitter cold, the girls get here tomorrow, and the stove is not drawing correctly. B came over to help out, and we cleaned the stove pipe. Still not drawing. You access the smoke chase through a little door under the oven and at the back of it there's a throat where the re-circulated gases go up the flue. It was clogged. Working from above and below we were able to break the clog apart and clean it out. Problem solved. I started a fire and we sat around, discussing literary matters over a cup of coffee until the fire was roaring. All good. High temperature in the low twenties, low of fifteen tonight, so it's good we got it figured out. In a couple of hours I have the oven heated to 450, so we should be fine for Scott and I to cook. It's supposed to warm up maybe ten degrees on Tuesday, which will be welcome. The difference between twenty and thirty degrees is a critical jump, maybe mostly psychological. Within a couple of hours the oven is hot enough to do Tandoori. An 800 pound stove heated to 600 degrees is a considerable heat source, and I have some Osage Orange logs for the late night stoking, they burn hot and long. All set, barring terrible weather, and I don't see that on the horizon. I vacuumed downstairs, a nod toward housekeeping, but if Rhea stays here, she'll probably want to vacuum my room, where she'd sleep, in my down bag, because the dust bunnies seem to be breeding up there. I sleep downstairs on the sofa all the time now, cooler in summer, and I can stoke the fire when I get up to pee in winter. It's a very comfortable sofa to sleep on, better than most beds, and I'm close to my computer, so I can tease out an occasional line. Leo, from the Cirque, is excited about doing some yard work for me. He needs the money, I need the work done, and I have the money right now. I'll be stretched a little thin, with the girls' visit, shocks and aggressive tires for the Jeep, and a new computer; but if I cut back on the sushi I should be ok. Samara calls and we finalize plans; Tuesday could be a problem, because it might snow, and that would screw up our shopping plans, but we'll cross that bridge. Read more...

Gone Wanky

My left hip pains me when the weather is cold and humid. I was burrowed in my down sleeping bag, on top of the bed upstairs, dreaming about the winter beaches of Cape Cod. I needed to pee, so I unzipped, sat up, swung around, found my house slippers. Beyond a certain point nothing is easy. I have to sit down, on the top step, and consider my options. Railings are mostly psychological. You touch them to chart a passage. Sometimes you use them, to navigate. My hip was hurting and I was being very careful. I had to stop, several times, on the way outdoors. Older, and failing. The back deck was iced-over, footing was suspect, and I relied on an old mop-handle to keep my balance, but it was worth the risk. Cold and brisk. Sound carries in a different way, everything is harmonics. Ronnie tuning his guitar. I was sitting in the front row, once, when the Boston Symphony Orchestra was rehearsing; I was the entire audience. Before they launched into Berlioz, they were tuning, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. I've always liked rehearsals better than performances because the dancers are always in tattered tights and there's usually a great deal of profanity. The real world. I'd slept late, because I was up most of there night, wondering whether or not I needed a couple of commas, which can become an issue, if you live alone, and don't speak for several days. B came over, I heard his trill, like calling a coon dog to bay, made us a cup of coffee, and he wondered if there was anything he could do. I mentioned the stove-pipe, and he said he'd be over tomorrow morning; he's fearless, and I can't climb a ladder anymore, without worrying about my sense of balance. Winter, Alan said, was perfect, because you didn't have to make anything up, it was all black or white. Snow and stick trees. There's more than that, certainly, but it is the basic framework. The natural world. Glenn called and we talked about that. It's easy enough to see the connection. What exists in the real world and our connection. Nothing succeeds like success. B had some questions about how the roof- load was carried, and I have a gift for visualizing; I don't know where it came from; but if I look at a problem long enough, I can usually find a solution. Actually, I run through a number of solutions that are more or less elegant, and I look at the materials on hand. Fact is that I visualize things. I can't not. Seeing and believing. He agrees to clean my stovepipe if I'll look at the question of his roof. A fair exchange. Read more...

Appearances

I know it matters, the way you appear. But I've gotten beyond that. I never threw dog shit on the roof, so that it looked like the neon rain-deer had shat (Charlotte's brother-in-law) nor did I ever smear stinky cheese on light bulbs (her sisters). I was never engaged by petty vandalism, because it always seemed a threat to my freedom. As long as I flew beneath the radar, I could pretty much do what I pleased. I prefer a world in which I can do what I want, so I go out of my way to make that possible. The die is cast. You reach a certain age. Quiet day at the museum, Board meeting, various small chores; then I stayed for Mark's six o'clock lecture "Renaissance Space", which was very good. The creation of proper perspective, the naturalizing of the human form. A boat-load of information. Excellent talk and a pretty good audience, for a lecture on Renaissance Art in Portsmouth, Ohio. TR agreed to lock up so I could creep homeward. Many deer. This morning, going in, it was many turkeys. I saw thirty or forty, gleaning the harvested corn fields. Sara and I talked about writing, off and on all day. She'd written a three page bio on one of our favorite local painters, we're opening next year with a retrospective of his work, and there's going to be a major catalog. She wanted me to proof-read it and see what I thought. It's damned good, and I told her so. I thought it needed one comma, which she agreed with at once. One of those cases where there needed to be a comma in front of a conjunction. We're both serious about punctuation. We talked about being clear. We both work slowly. We both smoke, so a lot of this conversation was held outdoors, at the loading dock. The last day of fifty degrees for a while. I was worried about getting home after the rain had started, I never used to worry, but now it's an issue, and I hate driving after dark, and the fucking deer; but it doesn't start raining for an hour, and I have a nice little fire going by then, and the house is warm. Warm being a relative term. My toes aren't freezing. Your igloo or mine? Phone was out when I went to send, so I just kept going. I'm excited about seeing my girls and meeting Scott, so I don't get much done at work, but neither does anyone else, so I don't feel bad about it. Mid-afternoon I went over to Kroger and bought a few groceries. I'll let the girls decide the menu, but I wanted a meal or two in the larder, in case of snow. Stocked up the juice supply, got a back-up carton of ultra-pasteurized half-and-half, because I like cream in my coffee and I didn't know if they did. Got eggs and bacon. I have two pork tenderloins in the freezer, and I could kill a goose tomorrow, if I needed to, with a machete. They consider me The God Of The Buttered Toast Points, the geese do; and it's nice to be recognized as a benevolent entity. Allows you to get very close, for the killing blow. Pluck a dead bird as soon as possible, the feathers release when the bird is still warm, then it becomes more difficult. Read more...

Plain Speak

Things are relative. Open to interpretation. Seventeen years ago I was doing some work on Thomas Jefferson's father's house. At the time, my bullshit detector was fine-tuned. I was in pain, and uncomfortable, and my living conditions were deplorable; I had to translate what I was doing into a very basic clear language. My survival probably wasn't in doubt, but it seemed like it was. I couldn't talk to other people, and I was eating mostly road-kill and rice. Truth be known, I was pretty fucked up, but I wanted to do a good job, because this was Peter Jefferson's house, and history matters. So I'd stay up, late at night, trying to say what I had done. I had running water there, and a deep tub, and I could wash my troubles away. Borders on sentimental, but I got in the habit of trying to say exactly what I had done. Reality trumps fantasy every time. Blow, wind, blow. Doctor John. The world on a string, sitting on a rainbow. I came to a agreement with myself: I'd just try to be honest. Not unlike where I find myself today. Trees stripped bare of their leaves. Another winter. Buckle up. Meetings all day at the museum and I got roped into attending one, a confab about the upcoming 200 year anniversary of Portsmouth. A couple of the events are at the museum and I'm Facilities Manager. Very boring, and their planning is quite disorganized. Then the bosses all took a late lunch and suddenly the day was over. Another month of the days getting shorter and I'm already driving home in the glooming. The Janitor's Nightmare is coming up, a High School show opening, and a lot of these kids don't eat well, so they load up on the sweets, drink soda, and throw-up in the bathrooms. The girls leave early Friday, after Thanksgiving, Samara and Scott actually have a show in Denver that night; and then on that Sunday I'm doing a reading at the lodge in the state forest. A lovely place, all posts and beams and very nice lodge furniture. Comfortable venue. A weird ruckus last night. I'd set out four mouse traps, the old break-their-neck snap kind, because the field mice are moving indoors. I was sleeping on the sofa, so I could stoke the fire, and about three in the morning I was awakened by the din of some small animal running around in circles. It was a Flying Squirrel with a mouse-trap on it's foot. I never did catch it, so it's probably dying somewhere in my house right now. When I was thirty I could have caught a Flying Squirrel that was trailing a mouse-trap. Now I don't even try. I'll find it by smell in a couple of days. Read more...

Dry Down

Oak branches that have lodged in bushes make great kindling. They dry out quickly and you can break them into pieces with your gloved hands. A good armload will fill the bucket and that's a week's worth of starter. My favorite fires are ones that I start with junk mail, then burn something from a dumpster, a busted chair or something, to get a bed of coals, then on to oak splits. I rescued a dozen oak shelves from a dumpster in town, 1x10, thirty inches long, and they'll make great intermediate wood because they are so dry. I'm low on utility candles, but now that I read, during black-outs, with the LED headlamp, I need them less, though I should get a back-up battery. During the several years I worked at the college theater, I amassed a huge quantity of AA batteries (you only use a battery for one performance in cordless microphones), so I'm good for my walking-in-and-out flashlights. I try to take care of these things when I think about them, or at least make a note. I have to get the insulated Red Wings out and give them a water-proofing. Tomorrow I have to get the front brakes redone on the Jeep, and new rear shocks, then I have to get some serious tires, $1,500 probably, but I have to do it. My finances have taken a hit: the driveway, the girls for Thanksgiving, the Jeep, and I still have to buy a new computer. I can put off buying new socks. I'll need a new pair of black jeans and a new denim shirt for the gig at Chautuaqua. Ever fashion conscious Before the first of the year land taxes and vehicle insurance come due. And I have to supply my ordinary day-to-day habits, food and drink, and stay connected, such as I do, with the grid. So I do have expenses. Took the truck in, first thing, no more grinding rotor. I might go ahead and get the new shocks and serious tires at the end of the week. Nice guy, Trent, said he could fit me in anytime. Only a thousand dollars for everything. He knew my driveway, and said he thought I should able to get up and down in light snow. Long range forecast is for very cold weather but no snow when the girls are here. We'll work it out. Don't know what kind of vehicle they're renting at the airport. I've been thinking about the menu, but I'll let them decide, three dinners and lunches. I am trying to line up some crabmeat, you can't go wrong with crabmeat. I got a new filter for the shop-vac, so I can clean some cobwebs and all the detritus of fall. I feel I need to appear at least partially respectable. My daughters, after all, the elementary structures of kinship. Read more...

Howling Wind

Hard to ignore the fact that the house is shaking. I get a flashlight to hand, set out a round of candles and an oil lamp. The wind is blowing sheets of rain that sound like the end of the world. The ridge seems to split the worst of the storm cells down into the hollows on either side. I collect wash water at a furious rate, replenishing what I used for a bath in mere minutes. I worry about the driveway, but there's nothing I can do. It's the leaves, clogging the catchments, that are the problem. Warnings on the radio advise that a line of severe weather is tracking just to the north of me, tornados possibly, and that I should seek shelter. A strange warning, in a way, because I'm in my shelter. I retreat to the sofa, with my headlamp, and read the latest Lee Child novel. Mind candy. Escapism, avoidance, whatever. The power comes back on, briefly, and I had left the radio on, came in on Bill Evans covering some classic jazz standard. I know the tune, but I don't know the name. Doesn't matter, in the great stream of things. Did I mention the wind is howling? Hail, and another warning to stay away from windows. My haunt, the highest spot for miles around, seems safe enough; the wind dies down, and the rain diminishes to a dribble. I seem to have survived. Do, no small part, to Edgar Meyer and the Cello Suites, which I play on a battery powered unit with head phones. I wake, after the storm has passed, when the electricity pops back on, a couple of lights and the radio. Rory Block is one hell of a guitar player. Percussive. Sounds like she's beating her instrument to death. No better way to catch my attention, than to cover Son House and Mississippi John Hurt in the same set. The Reverend Gary Davis. I love this stuff. Hard driving gospel, morality tales, and the harmonics left hanging in the air. Muddy Waters and Howling Wolf, a litany of people and places. I've been almost everywhere with almost everyone and none of it matters. What matters, ultimately, is what you feel. Robert Johnson certainly stirs the pot. Read more...

Inherent Defects

I have a problem with stupidity, I can't stand to be around it. Nothing prepares you to operate in the real world. Something wakes me in the night, a tree falling in the darkness, a pack of dogs running a deer, and I'm almost aware that something is going on. Stumble over and turn on the radio, get a drink, roll a smoke. If it came to choosing a mate, I'd be a bad pick. My idea of a good evening is teasing out a sentence. John XXIII had been pushed out of office, deposed, and Poggio was free to look for books; he found Lucretius and the rest is history. I went into town to go to the library and Kroger, ended up being staff at the museum though I wasn't scheduled to be. Lunched with TR and had a beer because I didn't know I was going to be staff. Ken Emerick, our favorite person at the Ohio Arts Council, and Todd, his partner, came down from Columbus with a ceramic artist we'll be displaying next year. Nice conversations. Sara ended up staying until closing time, talking with TR, so I could have left anyway. Just as well. I was able to read in a heated and very quiet place. I did several little mini-docenting explanations, on my way out, or on my way back in, from having a cigaret on the loading dock. I think I'm hearing rain. The next time I get up, I'll stick my head outside the door. I need some rainwater, and I'd need to position some buckets. The random beat is pretty cool. I suspect lentils, poured on a cymbal, but I couldn't say, exactly. Just at dawn there's a fog-like mist on the ridge; a thick layer of leaf compost turning a light rain into vapor. The trees are stripped bare. The green-briar is still green, the leaves are like leather. It's miserable, walking outside, but the ticks are gone, and the snakes, and I hope the bear. I'm tired of clanking cans together, because the sound is so offensive. On the other hand, I haven't been mauled, and that's a plus. I have copious notes that prove I was somewhere else. In south Florida, when tomatoes were coming into season. Read more...

Lecture

I made some notes during the day, stayed in my office and reread a few things. Talked about paper-making, printing with movable type, the beginning of the humanist movement, and Lucretius. I was fairly coherent, and answered some good questions at the end. It was fun, talking about some things that interest me. Left out much material because I didn't want to bore them. Afterward it seemed I could have gone on a bit more. It's all in the detail, and since I tend to notice detail, it's not hard to go on. But I absolutely did not mention frogs, or the fox. The people that came wandered around the museum afterwards, Mark and Charlotte were putting away chairs, and they told me to go home, they could lock up. So I did, driving slowly, because the deer are everywhere; the last couple of miles, through the forest, is a nightmare of eyes. I hate driving at night now, I used to love it, but now, there's a level of anxiety, and I'm not so sure. I navigate home, and it's beautiful, the ridge still encased in snow. Got a drink, started a fire and promptly fell asleep, slept a solid eight hours. Felt well-rested for the first time in a month. Couldn't do much at work because there were to puppet shows in the theater, both over-sold, for fourth and fifth graders. The shows was great and the kids were loud in their appreciation. Retellings of classic stories, with full-size puppets that the puppeteers just held in front of them. Lots of puns. There's another performance tonight, but I left early, to heat up water and have a bath. Dragged the sheep-watering trough inside, next to the stove, and put on five gallons of water. I pull a chair over, on which to put my supplies: clippers, my best towel, a body sponge, my bath-robe and clean socks, a drink, an ashtray and several pre-rolled cigarettes, and a bottle of lotion, because I pretty much need a complete rub-down. Wood heat equals dry skin. Several nice conversations with Sara and Charlotte today, they bragged about my talk last night, but, in truth, I felt I could have done better. Sara asked me directly, we were having a smoke in the alley, whether I was ever satisfied, and I told her no, not actually, because I always forget to mention telling details. Petrarch and Montaigne. We actually have Montaigne's copy of Lucretius, heavily annotated, in his hand. As authentic as anything could be. And he quibbles about minor points, but for the most part he agrees that "On the Natural World" is a great book. I can't believe how exhausted I am, praying for another night of uninterrupted sleep. I fully intend to turn my head to the wall tomorrow morning, and sleep past the sunrise. Read more...

Snow, Cold

We did get snow Tuesday morning, temperatures then and today barely above freezing, night-time lows right at twenty. Lost power Monday night, so stayed in town last night, and I'm glad I did. Went over to the pub and John Hogan himself was there, he bought me a brandy, and we had a great conversation. Tuesday, after the staff meeting, TR and I put away chairs and racked up tables, cleaned up broken glass (four wine glasses), and unclogged the drains in the sinks. Today I mostly dealt with garbage. It wasn't a bad day, because no one messes with you when you're dealing with garbage, but I was ready for it to end. I wanted to get home, start a fire, make some notes for my talk tomorrow night; so I begged-off an hour early and came back to the ridge. The driveway is compacted dense stuff, and it holds heat, but the north facing sides of the hollows are deep in leaves, which allows air circulation. It's much colder, and there's an inch of snow. I've thought about moving into a cave. It wouldn't be about making a point, or saying anything, it would just simplify be about my housekeeping. You don't expect much from a guy that lives in a cave. It's my fall-back position. Anabasis, imagine that. The bench mark, for the dead Latin language, is Cicero; I don't know what the bench mark is in Ancient Greek; I read Hesiod, often, that gnomic quality sucks me right into the narrative. I wish I were more of a linguist, but I have to rely on someone translating Greek into Latin into Italian into English. An imperfect science, it's amazing we can communicate at all. It's such a basic human need. Fall into winter. The test is you find yourself alone, a desert island, and you need to make sense of that. I make a nod toward meaning, then go to bed,. it all only apparently makes sense. Read more...

Stairway to Heaven

I've been reading so much, recently, about language and thought in the fourteenth and fifteenth centauries, the Humanists, that my poor brain is spinning. I have a penchant for pursuing subjects, though they tend to be more tangible, consider my opus, my canto, Of Foxes And Frogs, which is quite literal, to say the least. The first thing Gutenberg printed was (were) indulgences. The Catholic Church was a folly. You could buy a Cardinal, being Pope just required having a lot of money and being ruthless. John XXIII, was de-poped, or deposed, in 1416, the last Father Of The Church to be cast out. Religion is all about mediation. A Diet Of Worms. Luther and Calvin loosened the reins. I don't have a stake in this, I don't believe in anything. Following Lucretius. The atoms that are me become the next thing. Rot, and become part of the natural world. For now, I have to take off my sweatshirt, the house is too warm. Even a small fire is more than enough. Not dying is relatively easy: you just avoid conflict, keep your stove-pipe clean, and eat greens. The ticking of the wood-stove is a stairway to heaven. A random staccato beat. Crashed early last night, so the fire went out and the house was cold when I got up. I started a small fire and set about the cold weather routine of filling the kindling bucket and hand sawing some small sticks. A walk along the ridge top yields an armload of branches that I can break into more kindling. Rain changing over to snow is the forecast, and much colder. A flutter of bird activity including two Pileated Woodpeckers that swoop about from tree to tree, tilting their heads in that way they have, listening for bug activity under the bark. I love watching them. In fact, the entire forest is astir. Looks like everyone got the memo that the weather is changing. I brought home a pretty good pile of left-overs from the party, enough that I can just graze for a couple of days, supplementing the roast beef and chicken satay with sweet gherkins, black olives, and those small grape tomatoes that are sweet and delicious all year long. I have a little row of foodstuffs at the island, and every time I get up from my increasingly tattered writing chair, I eat a few items. I have to turn off the radio, I can't even listen to Terry Gross, whom I normally love, because listening sub-plants thinking, and I'm deep into myself right now, wondering if I should go one way or another. Dissensions like the one I face right now, whether I should go into town, so I can help with the clean-up, or just stay on the ridge, where I'll likely be snowed-in for a day or two, figure prominent in the framework. I choose the ridge, fuck a bunch of politics. I'm sure your grand-babies are the cutest ever. Read more...

Mouse Trap

A yearly game, when the first cold nights drive the field mice indoors, is to invent a better mouse trap. Usually variations on a theme. It amuses me to out-smart a mouse. I keep a package of shims around, the kind that you buy at a lumber-yard that are, essentially, shingles, 16 inches long, that are only an inch-and-a-half wide. These are used for installing doors and windows, to get them as plumb and level as possible, but they have a thousand other uses; and besides, they're red cedar and smell wonderful. I stick one out from a pantry shelf, weighting down the thicker end with a can of something. My pantry is a collection of oddities, so in this year's version I'm using a can of squid in their ink (from which I make a dish I call Blackened Pasta, not that it matters). On the thin end, cantilevered in space, I put a dollop of peanut butter. Think of it as "walking the plank". Directly beneath, I place a trash can (Big Lots, 99 cents) with a couple of inches of water in the bottom. When I got home this morning (I stayed in town) I had four drowned mice. The fundraising event went smoothly, except for the four broken wine glasses and the chocolate goo ground into the grout joints. We'd didn't sell much premium wine because of the open bar, so TR and I were able to spell each other and mingle a bit. It was fun, actually, ending with single-malt scotch and cigars in the alley. Those of us that stayed got hammered, but there were designated drivers. We all agreed to postpone cleaning-up until Tuesday. Locking up, at the end, TR and I had a last drink, and discussed musical composition, debated various ankles we had noticed, and wondered wether or not we'd bought something we couldn't afford. My crowning achievement of the evening was introducing the owner of the most influential gallery in Columbus to Ron Issacs. I should get a commission. I can navigate these things, I don't know where I learned it, I just introduce people to other people. The circle grows by word of mouth. Advertising is a construct; politics, for that matter. What you see is no longer what you get. The only thing you can trust is the word of the people you trust absolutely. When I fall into doubt, I call Linda or Glenn, or Joel, the Wittgenstein plumber, to pull me back into line. The leaves are almost gone, I can see across the hollow; nothing is changed, but everything is different. Limp sumac leaves and a strange filtered light: everything that's left is yellow. Soon enough things will be black or white; zero or one, life or death. My favorite board member, Julia, pulled me aside, just before the beginning of the event. She and her husband, Ralph, mostly drink Maker's Mark, on ice, with a splash of water, but people give them bottles of wine, and their larder was more than full, so she brought me six bottles of various reds, including a bottle of one of my favorites zinfandels, a Frog's Leap that I know and love, and a Shiraz that I've only read about. TR invites himself over for dinner, says he doesn't care what we have to eat, but that he wants to sample the wine. In a death-defying exhibit of ladder-work, I get the stove-pipe cleaned and start a fire in the cook-stove. Talk about under the wire, Tuesday is supposed to be a high of 38 degrees and a low of 23 with snow showers, and I'm as ready as I can be. Firewood stacked against the coming cold, and I have a day to split out kindling and make do with the small stuff. Not a bad place to be. Beans on toast with an egg on top, the common joys of maidenhood, whatever. I don't expect anything anymore. Read more...

Deer Moving

First hunters are in the woods, bow season, or black powder. Pick-up trucks pulled off the road, guys in camouflage, head to foot. Dangerous to take a walk. The last couple of miles home, through the State Forest, I drive at 20 mph, with full attention on the road ahead. There are deer everywhere. Two yearlings hang out just below the house, between the house and the driveway, and they should be safe there. They sometimes bed quite close, and I can watch them for long periods of time. They're buff right now, fat, and coming into their winter coats. Pegi got me the good rate, at the Super Eight, so the girls can stay in town, or Samara and Scott can, and Rhea can stay out here with me, or whatever. I fully intend to take a bath, running hot water, are you kidding me? What a luxury. Just about final preparations completed for the event. Everything is clean, everything looks great. It's always interesting at the fine wine table, TR and I bantering at each other and the customers. And the food is good. Ron and Judy will be there. I'll know most of the people, and they mostly like me. I don't think I've attended an evening event for months, and it'll be a chance to polish my social skills. Deer, on the way home tonight; I had some asshole right on my tail, and I was sure I was going to get rear-ended. I drive slowly through that section of forest precisely because I can stop, and this dude wanted to speed up. I pulled over and waved him around. He gave me a scowl. Road rage on Mackletree. We rarely shoot each other, but when we do, it's gruesome, a shotgun blast to the stomach, from ten feet away. They added Mac And Cheese as a side dish at the pub and I got a double order today. It's very good, like I used to make for the girls. Took home half of it, which was my plan. I'd picked up a vacuum pack of ham bits, I made some garlic toast, and fixed a side salad with sliced radishes and watercress. A very good dinner. Something was nagging me, I couldn't put my finger on it, concerning your world and mine. Read more...

Daily Preparation

Get with the program. The rain tapers off, and I've collected ten gallons of wash water with just a few leaves on top. What is time well spent? Break it down: time, well, spent. Now I have to factor in distance, because I can see across the hollow. Just at dusk, yesterday, the bats were out in force, darting about. I don't know where they live, some overhang or cave nearby that I've never found, but I love watching them flit around. Imagine trying to eat your weight in mosquitoes. We have hands, digits we can manipulate; and sling-shots, for god's sake, I only mention that because there was another pack of dogs, beagle mutts, tracking a coon, and I had to run them off. Sodden leaves are slicker than goose shit. If I survive the drive down the driveway, I'll be in good shape. I can't even listen to the news anymore, it's such a distraction. I've done my bit, you know? The rest of this chaos is none of my doing. Simply the heat-death of the universe. When I was younger I wanted to intercede, now I don't care. First day of prep for the fundraiser, which, of course, meant cleaning. TR and I cleaned the front and rear entries and washed windows. Tomorrow I have a full plate, but nothing I can't handle, as Marc, Charlotte, and Sara got most of the set-up for the event, and everything out and displayed for the silent auction. We have to de-install the front wall, and put those paintings in the vault, so we can hang the more expensive pieces that will be sold at a live auction. We're overbooked, which is fine, because a fair number of people send a check, but don't actually show up. The menu looks great. Ann (the board president's wife) and her extended family, all good cooks, are doing the food. I'm probably going to stay in town Saturday night. Which would facilitate my making off with any left-over crab-cakes; in fact I think I'll squirrel a few away, during the event, so that I would be sure to have a few the next day. Coin of the realm: crab-cakes. I hope to be pleasantly surprised by the beef loin, and they're doing a satay, I hope to god with a peanut sauce. Pegi's girls know to bring me things. I was in Kroger twice today, and I walked down one of those aisles where they were pushing non-food things, appliances and devices. There's a small crock-pot they're selling now, one-and-a-half quarts, designed for heating dips, and it's perfect for making grits, which in my world becomes polenta, and it's $10. I buy two, because electrical appliances always fail. Nothing beats a patty of polenta with an egg on top and whatever else you might feel like doing; a piece of toast, a glass of wine. Just short of heaven. Read more...

Booze Run

I've been tasked, assuming my other tasks, with inventorying the booze and replenishing the supply. We raised the price of admission, so the bar and table wine are gratis, and we'll be serving decent brands. The upper end wines will be paid for by the glass, $10 a pop, and TR and I will be pouring the good stuff, he the white and me the reds, upstairs. I requested that we have a designated server bringing us crab-cakes while we feverishly pour. I think we're low on most of the good booze, from the last open bar, and I'll need to go spend several hundred dollars at Kroger. I took a nap, sometime after I got home, I was completely wasted, then I got up and made breakfast, it was midnight exactly. As black as a cave when I went out to pee, just enough breeze that the dried leaves were rattling; extremely dissonant sound. Because of the company I keep, I immediately thought about lentils sprinkled on a cymbal. I make no apology for my company. I think nothing of mucking a grader ditch with a poet. It's just a matter of where you find yourself. My hands hurt, from holding pieces of art against the wall, trying to decide exactly where they go. This was an exhausting day, and I don't have a lot to show, but I'm deeply behind the scenes here. Pynchon is the greatest stylist in the language, there's no question. "Bleeding Edge" nails it. Huge leaf day. The driveway is covered and there are little dikes, at the verges on Mackletree. Because of the wind patterns in the hollows, there are places where they're several feet thick. Finished the Ron Issacs show. Re-hung the last major pieces; then spent hours making a pattern and taking many measurements, before hanging the seventeen small pieces more salon style on the remaining wall. It looks fantastic. TR said it was his favorite show ever. I had to call Glenn as soon as I got home. I got the labels up, Sara and Mark got it lit. Except for cleaning up, it's a done deal. Clean everything tomorrow, get everything sparkly, continue preparations for the event next Saturday. Get that out of the way. I want to sleep late and get home early. I did enjoy taking a group of students through the galleries late this afternoon, they were somewhat animated because they have a good teacher. Left work a few minutes early, to beat the rain, then put out my buckets, to harvest water. Seemed perfectly natural to me. Read more...

Celtic Tales

Long, cold, dark, damp nights are probably at the root of it, but you start hearing things, and seeing things too. Peter Winslow and I, this must have been the early seventies, would take our kit to the outer beach at Nauset, and surf-cast for cod. We weren't wildly successful, but we caught a few fish, and a few fish were all we needed. He was a pretty good cook, and I was learning; we'd bring home six or eight four pound fish, fillet them out, bake one slab, with mayonnaise and lemon juice, and have it with eggs, for breakfast. The rest we'd poach, in a bamboo steamer he'd found at a yard sale, and turn into codfish cakes. These cakes were mostly fish, with enough left-over mashed potatoes to hold them together, and you simply fry them in butter, or bacon fat if you're lucky. I lived on these for years. One of Peter's wives was a gardener, and there were always greens, kale, that we cooked with salt-pork, and water-cress, that we served as a salad. He was a wild-ass biology teacher in the regional high school system. We once dissected a small whale, actually just a 1,000 pound Black Fish, in the parking lot at his school, and the entire student body was involved. That's what I mean. What was I saying? I don't keep tabs anymore, other than writing you, and a collection of oak galls I keep in a wooden box on my desk .Far as I know I'm not actually here. Today, for instance, I was pricking oak galls with my pocket knife, and tasting the exuding liquid with the tip of my tongue. It's doubtful that a taste of anything will kill you, and I wanted to know what it tasted like. Sweet. Oak galls convert starch to sugar. That's a revelation. One thing becomes another. Ron Issacs and his wife, Judy, showed up just after lunch with the four missing pieces. Necessitated re-hanging a lot of the show, that and the fact that the full length 'dresses' needed to be hung lower because they just didn't look correct, so I was madly hanging all afternoon with three or four people looking over my shoulder. Still have the one wall of small pieces, about a dozen, one in six parts, to hang, and two pieces to move just a few inches, but I can finish tomorrow. The bosses understand I'm kind of up against it, and assigned TR to work with me tomorrow. There was actually one piece too many, so we hung it down behind the receptionist's desk, where I must say it looks great, and it can have a bit of signage that directs people to the show upstairs. This is one of the most elegant and beautiful shows I've ever installed. It's stunning, you can't believe what your eyes are telling you. Ron and Judy are sweethearts, no affectation, and we chatted the whole time about various things. Ron had come with his repair kit, and both he and Judy were amazed that I hadn't broken a single leaf tip or twig. There was nothing to repair. You have to enter a zone of hyper-awareness, when you do stuff like this, and it's exhausting; I'm always surprised with how much it depletes my energy. Staying completely focused is hard work, and at this point I know my limitations. When they were leaving, Judy turned to me and said that I was exceptionally good at this, hanging shows, and I thanked her for the compliment; but I knew I was, and I hate people looking over my shoulder. I have the thought, driving home, that nothing is sacred, but everything is. Read more...

Chores

Had to go to town to call the phone company, they said I should be restored by the end of the day today. While I was at the museum I did a little touch-up painting. Charlotte came in to clean the fridge. Preparation for the fund-raiser. Next Saturday is going to be a long day and I might not get home. Then the evening talk on the following Friday, which will give me a couple of weekends to clean house, muck out the outhouse, and get the cookstove going. In addition to cleaning the stovepipe, I need to clean the smoke chase (which is what heats the oven) and clean the cooking surface. I need to clean around and under the stove too, because I tend to stash things there: cast irons pots and pans that need re-conditioning; interesting burls of wood; miscellaneous unidentified objects that need to be cleaned to be identified. The first step of which is almost always that you dry it out. I have a bat skeleton I'm trying to preserve, the bones are so delicate, that I have to impregnate each one with a hardening compound before I dare to touch it. My older daughter calls, and we talk about logistics, what we'll be eating, everything subject to the weather. I should be able to get a motel room for them and take a shower there, before they get in the Monday before Thanksgiving. They have to leave that Friday, early, to get back to Denver for a show that night, so I might be able to get a second shower that morning, when I turn in their keys. It's all about hot running water. And seeing my girls, of course. I have to get my act together, I feel dislocated in space, I often drift, without a tether. Read more...

Grader Ditch

Two old guys, dressed like hoboes, pulling leaf-wads and rocks, opening the channel so the water won't cross the driveway. The chamber helps. B uses a mattock, and Mad Tom uses a stout yard rake. You'll notice that they take a lot of breaks; old farm boys, they squat or lean on their implements. They're not in the best of shape, after a summer spent almost completely reading and writing, and the walk back up, after working their way down, might well set the bar for what we could call a leisurely pace. A breather at the top, and they retire to B's cabin for a hardy espresso. The conversation runs from kick-backs in the text book trade, to dear sweet Emily (B said that the book Neil had sent made him weep), to Phychon's latest. Old Tom, the younger by a couple of years, has lost his upper body strength, and when they had reached the bottom, could barely move his arms. He probably needs a nap; and, as his phone isn't working, he has little fear of interruption. Having observed this side of myself for 10 or 12 years, the slow decline; I'm not surprised, I'm amazed, actually, that I can still contribute labor to something as hard-core as clearing a grader ditch. If you have any sense at all, this is something you farm out to a high school student linebacker. I can see across the hollow. 50% of the leaves have fallen and B and I agree we'll have to do this again, rake the leaves out of the drainage, at least one more time before everything is frozen. What we hope to accomplish is just to steer the flow toward the bank. Glenn is correct that drainage is almost always the issue. I was wearing a sword-fishing hat today, with an elongated brim, to shade against the light, and I could barely control what I was seeing; blinders, you might say, blinders that controlled the flow. I'm sore and weary, exhausted, in every sense of the word. My hands are cramped, from gripping a rake, my shoulders ache, from scratching the surface, and my lower back protests against any further activity. It's a good kind of tired, where there's a tangible reward for effort, but I have to medicate against the discomfort; roll a smoke, get an early drink, listen to the crows complaining. What I once took in stride is now more difficult. Nothing is what it seems. Merely catching a catfish is fraught with meaning. I don't subscribe to the notion that meaning is implied, but I have to admit that it appears we agree certain images conger certain responses. You and your baby girl, a sunset over the bay, the spent civil servant retreating to his hut. I was already mentally exhausted, from installing three shows in a month, and now my shoulders complain that I should have hired someone younger and stronger to do what needed to be done. On the other hand, B and I tend to keep things in house, which precludes farming out chores, even if you don't feel up to the task. And there is a way, certainly, in which doing something physical, grubbing out a grader ditch or any other equivalent chore, can lead to a zen-like state of total doneness. Of course I think of Basho, looking for a ledge that would protect him from the rain. I have a day, to recover, then Tuesday, we have to set the wall of small pieces, and it'll take me Wednesday to hang it. Then there are the labels and lights. I hope it's clear to my bosses that I don't have time to scrub the toilets, and I'm tired, let me make this perfectly clear, of scrubbing toilets in the first place, since I generally just shit in the woods; the whole idea of having a designated room for defecation is alien to me. And the very idea, don't get me started, that I didn't get the porcelain sparkly enough, I mean, come on. I'm ready, at this point, to hang up my mop; I'm done with other people's spills, I'd rather just read and write. I was telling B today that I pretty much get home, turn on the computer, get a drink, roll a smoke, and start writing. Getting a complete sentence in an hour is my goal. Whether or not the porcelain is up to your standards might be another issue. Cleanliness is over-rated. Read more...

Hail

Loud enough to wake the dead. The down side of having a metal roof. I get my candles ready, and the oil-lamp, but I'm about ready for sleep anyway. Hanging a complicated show like this is exhausting. Hell of a storm on the ridge last night and a great many trees down, on Mackletree. Hard rain, hail, high winds, and fifty percent of the leaves are stripped. I did almost nothing other than listen to the weather. Power and phone out almost immediately. A bit early for the first of these storms, but it does serve to indicate where we need to dedicate some time to improving the drainage by clearing the grader ditch of leaves and fines. B came over to talk about that, clearing the ditch, and we agreed on Sunday morning, because I'm staff, again, in the rotation of one, for Saturday duty, three weeks in a row. Fine with me, I have an enormous pile of books I need to read in the next two weeks, and I don't look forward to mucking out the grader ditch, but it must be done. Coming into town, all of the traffic cones are flipped on their sides. It looked like a battlefield, from which you had been protected. Never would have imagined. Those Bradford Pears are beautiful right now, and I'm engaged, the way scarlet goes to dark green. The verges, in the state forest, are completely unreadable, under banks of leaves; for a couple of miles the road is reduced to a single track. Ollie, Ollie in free. Everyone slows down, because wet layered leaves are a lot like goose shit, slicker than the sled you rode in on, and control becomes an issue. I've dealt with this my whole life. I'm comfortable enough with my own life, but I'd never foist it off on someone else. I have a pre-pain, where I know my muscles will be sore Sunday evening. Laugh as you might, there is a connection between the pain in my hip and the relative humidity. Phone is still out. Went in early, being the Saturday staff person, and did my grocery shopping before work. It being around the first of the month, Kroger is a zoo in the afternoon. Decided to re-hang the red dress piece, so get TR to help me take it off the wall, mark a new point several inches down, pull the old anchor, patch and repair, then set a new anchor. I take all of the packing material and boxes to the basement, then help TR set up chairs for the Sunday concert of Renaissance music. The mural painter, Robert Danforth (sketchy on that last name, but I hope it's Danforth, because it would be cool to be named for an anchor, but I think it's Dafford) and his significant other, Lilly, are in town for a few days, premiering a documentary of his work on the Portsmouth flood walls, and I walk them around. I'm not a fan of murals, but they're both interesting people. They're (Robert and the directors) thinking about doing a Carter mural on our wall in the alley. Robert wants to do this extended (it would be 60 feet long, starting at three feet high, expanding to eight) perspective thing, which would actually become quite abstract He realizes right away that I can picture what he's imagining, and he asks me to take a lot of measurements for him, which would be easiest done if I just drafted the wall, and I wonder who would be paying for my time. I can do it. I understand what he wants to do, but I'm not sure what my mandate is here. Either you hire me, or you do it yourself. I don't understand where the money for this project would come from, but that's not my bailiwick. I just need to know to what extent my attention is required. Then I'd have to decide whether or not I wanted to do it; always a question when you're independent, live in a tree-tip cave, and eat food that has been thrown away. I like playing second fiddle, there's less pressure. I find I'm less concerned about what anyone thinks. Growing older, nearly in my grave, I have no words of advice. Cicero spoke pure Latin. A fixed language, it's the vulgate bible that breaks new ground. The vernacular. Read more...