Another Front

Harrison says that knowledge gives shape to scenery. Which is certainly true. The ridge is packed in snow, and I might try to get the Jeep out tomorrow because I think that breaking through the crust would result in even slower speed. I think I could hold a line, going down. I'm thinking about it. More severe weather coming tonight, 10 below, it never got above 15 degrees today, but I had to get outside, so I refilled the wood-box, split some small stuff, brought everything inside. Two or three more nights below zero. It's been a fairly brutal February. I had a divine sardine and onion sandwich for lunch, then went back outside, because I was dressed in insulated everything, and it was so beautiful. I'd cleared one edge of the stoop completely, so that it would be a dry place to sit, and I use it often. Hermit dressed in tatters, smoking a badly rolled cigaret. I read some Sidney Lanier today, thinking about music and words. Then some more Harrison. Read a nice piece about the comma queen at The New Yorker, which was actually a history of the comma and where it stands today. A subject dear to my heart. I end up spending several hours looking at commas. I was sore and a bit sour, from working in the cold and getting older, but I bucked up enough to spend the evening slightly altering meaning by where I placed a pause. Seemed like a pretty good use of my time. I made a great mayonnaise with Adobo sauce and a finely minced chipotle, then made a great grilled cheese sandwich with several different shredded cheeses. Simple pleasures. Got a good fire going and tucked in for a nap. I need to get up after midnight, and tend the fire. If I do get out tomorrow, I'd have the vehicles tracks to walk up and down in, easier than the high-footed dance I have to do walking up in the same footprints I made going down. My potter friend, Antony, called and wanted to visit, and actually did. Drove out, parked at the bottom of the hill, hiked in, drank coffee, and we had a couple of hours of conversation. A rare mid-winter treat. I didn't get the Jeep out. After Antony left, I took a little walk, down the logging road, thinking about the choices we make. He's at a crossroad, a choice between one life or another, and both of them are attractive. Henry Miller could have played competition table tennis. Something killed a rabbit, an owl probably, and there's an interesting kill-and-eat circle in the snow; I studied it for so long that my feet got cold and I had to go back to the house. Simon Ortiz said "There are no truths, only stories." Which seemed germane on several fronts. The first of which was the story I made up about what had happened at a very specific place recently, bird kills rabbit. Anyone might notice something else, which would tell a slightly different story. Also, that there could even be a consensus, Penn And Teller would blow away with a nod. I'm having a steamed artichoke for dinner, with the chipotle mayonnaise and a pone of cornbread. I've been looking forward to this. I'm going to listen too Bach, then take a nap.