Party Line

When Luther tore up the papal bull, 1520, that was the signal that we didn't buy the whole line of crap. I have a very difficult time with that kind of arrogance. The church, I mean, not Martin, he was on the main track. It's easy enough to see why we want to believe, it makes things easier. But there is no mediation. Nothing to be said. Less mediation is better, and he saw that, bless him and the crowd he rode in on. I can't tell you the number of nights I find solace in my tree-tip pit. I meet with some people, they hardly matter. I like this new reality. I wouldn't change a thing. Future pluperfect. I had a character I wanted you to meet, but he slipped away. Maybe later. More fireworks, I must say, they leave me cold. An artifice of no substance. Quiet and still later. Putting away some books from my rather intensive study of Veronica and the stations of the cross, I made a few notes. Not much of the early church lore makes any sense. The sumac leaves are turned inside out, which probably means a thunder storm later, so I went for a walk in the coolness of gathering clouds. I could smell the rain coming. The green is dark and intense. There was a bird caught in green-briar, a dove, hanging upside down; her foot was obviously entangled. I had my clippers with me, as I always do on walks in the woods, so I covered her with my handkerchief and held her still while I clipped her out. She beat her wings furiously at first, until I could smooth out her feathers and grip her properly. There was a narrow 'V' in the vine and she had one foot wedged firmly in the narrows. I freed her and carried her over to a small puddle in the driveway, sure she was dehydrated and wondering if her leg was broken. She was fine, and after a few minutes of hopping around, and a couple of drinks of water, she was off and gone. I'd stopped at B's new place, down the hill, to see what he'd done, and he has moved down there. I don't blame him, electricity and running water. He's living on the newly rebuilt back-porch, sleeping on a sofa, while he finishes the rest of the house, but he's there now, and not on the ridge. He is, more than anyone I know, affected by place, so I expect poems of the hollow, rather than songs of the ridge. The birds and bugs will all be shuffled to suit the environment. I don't think there's anything unexpected, I could flash my fingers in front of your eyes, and you probably wouldn't wink. I know three writers that set the standard, and they all approach language in a different way. An artist friend stopped by, on a trip from southern Utah to NYC, and she had a bud of very good Colorado weed. We smoked that and drank a bottle of zinfandel before I fixed a simple dinner of flounder fillets and fried zucchini. She's a foody, and thought this was one of the great meals she had ever had. I explained it was merely that Colorado bud speaking; but she wants to fly me out to her place to cook for a few friends. First off, I don't fly anymore, and, secondly, her friends are not necessarily mine, on the other hand I could act dumb and make good money. I refuse, citing ailments, in truth I'd rather die in a culvert. Funny, how I'd end up there, a culvert in Kansas or Nebraska, rather than the usual trip-tip pit. Nonetheless. A tumbled thing. Nothing is what it seems.