One Time

Skip James. "Special Rider Blues." The train done out of the station. Over in Kentucky where the sun does always shine. A picture of my lady and her ass sure looks fine. I have to turn off the radio, though I love that twelve string guitar being beat to a pulp, the fucking lyrics are driving me crazy. A backlash to that would be a girlish soprano singing about the size of some suitor's equipment. The blues is always about subjugation and abuse. Anything in G. TR hangs the note, then drops dried beans on the cymbal. Mary still eats bread. And the pace picks up. Slowing into a curve, then speeding, to gain control. Not unlike the way you feel, with your nose and ears wrapped, in a scrumble. Yes, yes, I see it now. The way you stack firewood, the way you dance. An easy exit, thunder storms. Showers off and on all day, and I reread "Blood Meridian", did manage one walk, and it was lovely, the greens cleaned and restored in the rain. The ticks were out in force and I was picking then off me for half-an-hour when I got back home. A nice omelet, fried potatoes, toast, then back to my reading. So violent but so beautifully written. Replenish my supply of wash water, which I'll need for my dishes and me tomorrow; I might go to town, and I've allowed myself to get a bit ratty. I need to see some other human beings, and I need to go to the library as I can't read any more McCarthy right now. Maybe I'll go out and hack some weeds tomorrow, before cleaning up, and work on the access to the back of the woodshed. I need to clear a new path to the outhouse. I've been using a trench latrine, to let the outhouse and the composting toilet dry out so I can empty them. I've a pile of shipping pallets I need to cut up for kindling, I still have wood on the driveway that needs hauling; and they've cut a bunch of trees, sycamore and oak, down at the lake, where they're rebuilding the damn and spillway, and the wood is free for the taking. Be a fool not to pick it up. A lot of my wood comes from the roadside. This goes all the way back to Glenn and me living in the church, when we scrounged all of our wood, and just barely managed to avoid freezing to death. He paid the bills, I kept us fed, and we talked about Melville and dear sweet Emily. A winter in which there was a lightning storm that came in over the top of a snow storm. These don't happen often, and if you see one count yourself lucky. When backlit strobes of light illuminate particular flakes. Silent lightning in a snow storm. Double cheddar, some very good olives, I have to go, I'll certainly lose power.