Seriously Quiet

So warm today, 55 degrees, that I didn't even build a fire. Plenty of food cooked. I have the small electric oil-filled radiator on its lowest setting over near the back door. The house is muffled and silent. Nights like this I kill the breaker for the fridge. I read for a while, a book on the Mayan sense of time, then dined on left-overs, reading the current book at the island "American Cheeses" and staring off into the middle distance. Reflective rather than depressive. Several times I chuckle, remembering Fritz, for instance, setting the side pocket of his jacket on fire with a pipe he thought was out; or the time, up The Little Cimarron, in the early spring, when I tripped and fell in the stream, which was a brisk 34 degrees, and thought I would die before I could get a fire built. Funny now, but at the time I was damned afraid I'd just curl into a ball and freeze to death. The wolf at the door, for sure, but I build a hell of a door, and I take nothing for granted. " What is sour in the house, a bracing walk makes sweet." Thoreau, Wild Apples,. Is it just me or does Thoreau sound like dear sweet Emily? Paula Poundstone is the wittiest person I've ever heard: I often choke when I hear her call something into question. Her timing is impeccable. And timing is everything. She questioned scientific investigation recently, on NPR, and made me laugh so hard I nearly died. Because it had been so quiet, later, after a nap, the rain woke me about three in the morning. The house was still warm, unbelievable for this time of year, so I got back up, poured a splash of whiskey and rolled a smoke. I wanted to call Barnhart or TR, the music guys, and talk to them about recording rain. I had some ideas. One thing I like is the way the off-beat drips form an extended jazz rift. The melody just emerges as a wisp. You can count the time, but it doesn't fit into any pattern. Fireflies flashing, any May of your imagining: you're flat on your back, expended, watching light generated organically. Then I have to pee and go outside, the cold rain feels good, I fumble through several layers of clothing, manage to not piss on my foot, and when I get back inside I realize, fuck me, I am the other one. I can't even remember what I was thinking about.