F**king Whip-O-Wills

I'm not a violent person. But sleeping on the sofa, with the windows open and a cool breeze stirring, I don't want to listen to them; so run them off, with my slingshot and shouted imprecations, and they settle in the next hollow over; still driving me crazy, so I shut the windows and turned on the radio. A great set of early blues. Listening to Skip James, Mississippi John Hurt, is like expanding into a different universe. Searching the short-wave for slack guitar. I settle down, get a drink, roll a smoke. Heard a turn of phrase at the farmer's market: "I wouldn't care to drink maybe just a cup" to mean that she would have a cup of coffee. I have a cousin that talks like that. Tennessee Jed. Thinking about how meaning is conveyed. I heard a review of a movie, McCarthy's "Child Of God", and I immediately read it again. My sleep patterns have become so erratic that it's disconcerting. I reread this book between one and four in the morning, by headlamp, with a rifle at my side. Lester is a piece of work. I was afraid to slow down too much, on the drive in, rain was running in the grader ditch, and I wanted to watch the water running, but I couldn't lose my momentum or I'd never make it to the top. What I should have done is park the Jeep at the top and walked back down, to carefully observe what the water was doing, but I just wanted to get home. Fuck a bunch of drainage. Black olives, an extra sharp cheddar, saltines, fried smelt, I'm good to go. Read the other two early McCarthy books, then finished the Nighttime book, all of them excellent. B called and needed help putting the window back in that I had helped take out a few days ago. Repaired and painted. Got that done, then took out another one. Had a beer and talked for a while. Came home and grazed through smoked mussels, cheese, pickled okra, and crackers. Read those three McCarthy books in a 24 hour period to dance a bleak jig. He is a great writer. I started clipping the access into the back of the woodshed, so I can wheelbarrow firewood as close as possible; 75% blackberry canes, so it's brutal work, the ten thousand cuts. I didn't work that long, it's warm and I had to wear long-sleeves, maybe an hour, but I felt as if I had done something. A mild gin and tonic when I came in, lots of ice and lime. A phone call from an old flame in Florida, she thought I was fairly easy to track down, I thought I was nearly impossible. She tracked me down, and called, to remind me that I had been voted "Most Likely To Succeed" or something, in our senior class. I had to remind her that I didn't attend my own graduation, and that High School was hardly the high point of my life. I hope she spreads the word that I'm surely too contrary to even contact. I'm not part of any network, I just write paragraphs.