Steely Gray

Rain, so I blow off going to town for the Saturday lunch with TR. The sky is completely uniform. Enough chill that I wear my bathrobe over my clothes. Putting away some books and I found a couple, translations and commentary on 'The Dead Sea Scrolls', with which I spent the rest of the day. Barely aware of the passage of time. Several rounds of finger food, and several cups of smoked tea, before I get a glass of whiskey in the late afternoon. I've been told by house guests, that have a chance to observe me as the solitary human I actually am, that I'm a very intense reader. I mumble, squirm, tease out meanings and look up words. Sunday dawns lovely, so I make a second cup of double espresso and make an omelet, toast with peanut butter. Cleaned a couple of corners in the house that had been bothering me, but I could only see the spaces in the morning; then filled the woodbox, split some kindling, then went out and split half of the remaining oak rounds. A branch had fallen down over the driveway, but was caught up in some young poplars, so I had to lop off some of the smaller branches so I could drive under the damned thing the next time I go out. Since I intend to do the same work tomorrow, I don't clean up or shave, or even change clothes. When you're walking up and down in the woods, this time of year, you're going to smell like leaf-litter no matter what you do. Very nice outside. I sat on the stoop with my first whiskey and rolled a smoke, rolled my shoulders, felt a little sore. I liked the feeling, my body responding to what I needed to do. I knew I had my dinner cooked, left-overs, high quality left-overs, pork tips and greens. So I sat outside until the darkness was nearly complete. Duck under the radar, eat a great meal, sleep for a few hours in a hollow, on the beach of imagination; you might choose one path, and I another. Rolled over, on the sofa, I didn't want to dare the stairs. Jesus, I'm sore. I remember I'd bought some generic Aleve, the last time my hip was hurting and I get up to find them. Waiting for the drugs to kick in, I got a last wee dram, rolled a smoke, and laughed at myself. At my age, to find myself here. Eight more oak rounds to be split, then haul everything to the shed. Every piece I haul to the shed needs to be spilt two or three more times. This time of year, what you do is try and set up a situation where you don't die. Split wood, collect water, gather acorns. When I wake up later, aching in every pore, I wonder what futures, what gains.