Desires

The wind over the top. Turn off the light and listen. Either Anthony or Joel said something about sleeping alone. I tend to wad a blanket between my knees and pretend there is another person. Usually I save myself then awake confused. Sometimes the idea of other intrigues me, but usually I realize I wouldn't want to be, in any way, predictable., and I can no longer deal with compromise. I can barely live with myself, and other people scare me to death. I was in the middle of a harrowed field, looking for flaked stone, sipping from my flask, not a threat to anyone, and the owner appeared, asked me what I was doing. I had to think about that. I showed him a few points I'd found, walking along the furrows. He took me to his house, for a drink and coffee, and showed me his collection of artifacts. It was extensive. We spent several hours talking; two guys in bib-overalls discussing Wittgenstein. He knew who I was and where I lived and gave me the history of the small church that used to exist one hollow to the west of Low Gap, the dead of which populate the cemetery on my property. More rain and the trees are loving it, every living thing sucking life from what has died and what has re-condensed. During all this spring rain I try and not feel guilty. I use less water than anyone I know but I still feel wasteful. The fate of the planet is an algorithm that involves water, and it's companion, drainage. Fucking driveway, I swear to god, I'm sick of it. Three places need to be raked out and re-channeled and there is a ton of dead leaves that need to be removed. If it's not one thing it's another. Butterflies all around, having a tough time in the wind. Turned on the radio to get a weather forecast and the water level in the Ohio has gone down ten feet in just two days, which, I figure, must be a lot of water. And it's supposed to get cold, but stay dry. The hickories are budded, and the tops of the oak trees are casting pale color. Just in time to start preparing for next winter. When those packets of instant rice or noodles are ten for a buck, I buy them. I recently acquired another large tin (a dumpster in town) that is dedicated to ramen noodles and instant mashed potatoes. I lived among survivalists for many years. The gamut from Mormons to Native Americans, and I learned to plan ahead. I have to close the house back up, against the chill, and it's so quiet I listen to all of the Cello Suites. Computer off, refrigerator off, phone unplugged, all the lights off except for the tell-tale on the radio/CD player. I crank the volume pretty high because I like to hear all the extraneous noises. It's a transport, to listen to Bach for a couple of hours. It allows me some limited insight into the concept of being "born again". Music, or art generally, Color Field Painting, a good production of a decent play, a totem pole, whatever pulls your crank, whatever pulls you out of yourself. I'm fortunate, I think, sitting in the silence, that I've known a great many people that were very good at what they did. Very good. And I'm humble, or reasonably humble, that I'm actually still alive.

Tom

No, wait. That wasn't where I was going. Words get the better of me. Often, the next day, everything looks different. The sun might be out, or the scent of jasmine in the air, something catches your attention, and you forget everything else. Partial Knowledge, PK: we see a lot of this; they seem to be looking for a free meal. B says we should feed everyone, no matter what. Off the record, I agree.