More Dogs

In medieval England, a hound that hunted by scent, was called a rache. The puppy brigade was up tonight, following the scent of the hounds. They're so excited about where the big dogs peed, that it's difficult to run them off. I'm fully awake, so I get a wee dram and roll a smoke. I need to spend another morning on the driveway, three small places that need some attention, and the blackberries need harvesting, I need to verify the firewood vouchers, and start laying in the larder. Every year is different, but you have to prepare for the worst: the first winter I lived here, 2000, I didn't hike in a single time, last year, I hiked in maybe 40 times; crampons and ski-poles just to access the house. And the house would be very cold. Not impossible, but difficult. It'll be easier, this coming winter, because I won't be working on the outside, I can just hole-up. Curl under a woolen throw and reread Proust. It's about time I reread all of Pynchon in order. I can fill my, what, hole, duration, space, with that, because I know to keep my toes and fingers tucked. B will be down below, with running water, can meet me at the bottom of the hill with a bottle of whiskey. It's looking pretty good. If I died I'd be frozen and you wouldn't have that whole smell issue, human icicle in a body bag. B wasn't home, so I took his books back to the university library, then went to the public library, then got some money, went to Kroger, and when I came out the Jeep wouldn't start. Walked over to the pub and had a beer, then back to Kroger and the vehicle started right up. I left it running when I stopped for cigaret papers, then again when I stopped for some breaded and fried potato logs at the Qwik Stop. Four for a dollar, and if they're skinny ones Wanda gives me five or six. A good snack if you're trying to gain weight. Ronnie, who is skinny as a rail, said the other night that I was the only person that made him feel fat. I have so much wash water, that I just set out a black bucket on the front deck, before I left the house, and when I got home, scooped out a shower and a hair-wash with a tin cup. Books, food, whiskey, it's a fool's paradise, but I am that very fool.

Dark, a light.
Lighted from behind
everything is in shadow.

Gardly Loo is hard-assed, admits no fault of her own, but she fairly spits these words at the percussionist. Some phrase that has the river of Jordan, buried in the lyric. They seem to be arguing about when the lentils will come down. I stand over in the shadow of the doorway. I spent hours reading myself today, and it was an exercise in misery, I wanted to punch a sharp steel point into my brain. I won't, of course, but it was interesting;considering the circumstances under which that might be necessary.