John Clare

The darting mind: Christopher Smart, Skip Fox. "The pretension of biographical reality," as Harrison says, is sometimes overwhelming. Something woke me. Took a few minutes for me to come fully awake but there was a noise inside the house, something small and frenetic. I knew it was a bat before I turned on a light. A merry chase ensues, me in my long underwear with a butterfly net. It's difficult to get a bat out of a butterfly net. By the time I get it safely released outside, I'm completely awake, so I get a wee dram and roll a smoke. Bats are vectors for rabies, so I had put an oven-mitt on one hand, being careful not to get bitten. I'd heard a piece on NPR about rabies recently, and I had retreated to what might be called a careful mode, not wanting to die that way, convulsing and foaming at the mouth, no matter how appropriate that might be. Later, staring into the middle distance, I had a minor epiphany that involved Mormons and all the women I've ever loved. There were pillars of salt, and a freight train loaded with coal. B told me to wear ear protection. I'm good at reading sign, but I made no sense of it. I have a history of not understanding. I don't give up, if we did that we'd all be dead at 18, but fifty years later, I'm still not sure I get the point. Antony mentioned that he hated going to events, openings or such, that he hated getting ready, felt like a gadfly; but that once he was there, he enjoyed himself. I knew what he meant because I hate going anywhere, but once I'm on the road I feel great about the prospects. It would be so easy to just give up, the temptation is everywhere, but something in the DNA makes you cast the net one more time, for old times' sake, and you find something new. Enough to stumble on. Keep ample supplies of animal fat, a bag of potatoes, usually there isn't any reason to exist; but the birds seem to think otherwise.