Colloquialisms

Got a card from one of the Chinese students I spent a day with last year. He remembered me fondly, had found ordered and read a couple of my books. Said they had helped him enormously on getting a handle (his phrase) on how English is actually spoken. Colloquialisms account for a great deal of our spoken language. Pegi is full of them, and we were the only two at the museum today, so we chatted a bit. Chatted, also, with an older couple, about the Gough paintings. Working up my rap. I don't want to step on Mark or Charlotte's shoes, they're both wonderful docents with the show. Way better than me. But the Art History teachers tend to specify me as their docent of choice, mostly because I know the Carter collection so well. We'll work it out. I could do a very nice lecture on Weyth And Gough. Not so strange, actually, because I knew we were doing this show two years ago, which is why I undertook the study of Weyth and his work. The similarities have a lot to do with depth-of-field, incredible attention to detail, and a surreal knowledge of tonal values. Walked in without crampons for the first time in three weeks. The rain and the warm temps has every creek raging and the Ohio has flooded all the bottoms. Life as it should be. It's going to be beautiful, when all that floods freezes next week. I have to spend a couple of hours in the woodshed, Sunday or Monday, to get ready for another week of very cold temps, but B or both of us might be able to drive in with supplies, right after the driveway refreezes, if there isn't too much new snow before then. Supplies would be good, maybe a chocolate bar; this time of year I chew on a sliver of ginseng that's been soaking in grain alcohol. The main thing, about living alone, is that you don't have to compromise. When an owl wakes me, three in the morning, I go out to pee and look at the moon; boot up this paragraph, pour a wee dram, roll a smoke, and read out loud. Later today, Saturday, I'm staff at the museum. Emily has the desk, TR is attending a pre-nuptial Catholic retreat (anabasis, I have to laugh, the word actually popped into my head, Xenophon, and other famous retreats, Napoleon withdrawing from Russia, history redrawn by the weather), Mark and Charlotte are away, and things will be quiet. I might read some Carter letters. I might stare off into space, seeing where things might go. To a large degree, I'm not accountable, which I attribute to living alone. A tree-tip-pit is better than no home at all.