Blowing Snow

I can't quite see the other side of the hollow. As soon as I got the stove hot (an hour) I started cooking. Fuck a bunch of weather. I did fix the huge breakfast for a late dinner, and it was splendid, and I have left-overs that I'm making into hash for breakfast; then I intend to make a world-class Pork Fried Rice. I see no reason to leave the house. I hear the county truck spreading gravel on the hill where Mackletree comes down into Upper Twin. It's very quiet otherwise. No wind, just light snowflakes drifting about. One of those black and white days until a woodpecker flies in, flashing a showy crest. Mid-day it started snowing harder and even the trees close to the house were difficult to see, but the sky is getting lighter. I don't remember, if I ever knew, the forecast. In a separate file I start writing a letter to my father, which is a project I've managed to put off for years. I have several skillets to clean and cure, and two books that I'm rebinding, both of which I think of as 'non-electric' chores. While I still have power I listen to Casals playing the Cello Suites, in order, which is a pain in the ass, because no one ever records them in order. I'd moved my base of operation over to the island, so I could cook, and I noticed a joint I had cut, 15 years ago, for a support post under the stringer for the stairs. I remember cutting it, it's a Dogwood post and I could take you to the very spot where it was harvested. The joint itself is cut at a compound angle, and it was cut with an electric chainsaw. I couldn't do it today, but it is very nearly perfect. The test for nearly perfect is that you don't notice it at all: you finish a very nice poplar ceiling and trim it decently and only you will know its imperfections. The chickadees swoop in to feed on the Sumac. They're so fucking cute they make me smile. They appear so fat, puffed up against the cold. True to form, I venture only as far as the back porch, where, Gardy Loo, I dump out wash water and the piss-pot. I was working out a chess problem, just to understand where my mistake had happened, what I hadn't seen; I used to play Go with Harvey, before he killed himself, he was much better at the game than me, as B is with chess, but that doesn't preclude me examining specific moves. My mistake. I assume full responsibility, I moved the rook one round too soon. My tell is that I broadcast my intension with a grin. Of course I can fake that, we all learn to fake reaction, but I don't play games very well. I'm only good at Scrabble because a have a good vocabulary. The Pork Fried Rice is very good and I eat a couple of servings as the cold settles, and it is cold, make no mistake. The last time I go out to pee, my beard freezes. Even inside my hands don't work correctly and I have to warm them in my armpits before I roll a cigaret, but I'm comfortable enough, in my three or four layers of clothes; the biggest problem is having to start disrobing before you feel the urge to pee. A night like tonight, I set the timer for when I want to put a last log on the fire, then roll into my down bag and play dead. Assume a fetal position, under two blankets, in three layers of clothes, it's doubtful you could die. The last thing I hear on the radio, says that tomorrow will begin with frozen fog. I don't know what that is. Is it in the air, or does it settle on things? Frost on the window or a sheet of ice? Frozen fog sounds like a film technique, where everything fades to black and white. Black fingers and toes that have to be amputated. Bone-fishing on the flats, you only ever see a shadow. I'm good at this, but I miss most of the time. Mostly, we miss the point.