Letting Go

One advantage of living alone in isolation is that you can allow yourself to get very dirty. I knew by noon that I was going to get filthy. Splitting wood, doing a little trimming, going for little walks; it was over 90 degrees and I was wet with sweat and everything was sticking: pollen, dust, sawdust. My hair was greasy, my nails needed cleaning, but I knew I was going to be doing the same things tomorrow, so I just washed my hands and face. It's going to take three gallons of water to get clean, and I can't see doing that two days in a row. If anyone saw me now, they would certainly take me as the village idiot, ragged dirty formerly white tee-shirt with the sleeves and neck band cut off, formerly tan Dockers that would get me arrested if there was a village. But comfortable, a whiskey, a smoke, some Skip James on the player. Rodney didn't show up to clear brush today, which was fine, I didn't feel like conversation, and I'll give him another chance, but Ryan, of Kinsey and Ryan in B's old place, needs some billable hours, and he's young and strong. Even for the impossibly remote there are options. I was thinking about cast iron today, cleaning a six inch pan I use exclusively for omelets, a little kosher salt and a paper towel. I seem to keep four skillets at hand, two sixes, an eight, and a ten; I have a twelve but it's too heavy, it has an off-handle handle but if you use two hands to hold the fucking pot, how the hell do you scrape it out. Some sort of Chuck Close spatula held in your teeth? I have a system that involves eating out of the skillet, letting it cool overnight, then scraping in into a bowl from which I can just spoonj it out as needed. A pot of jasmine rice, and a stir-fry: onion, red pepper, cauliflower, and hot Italian sausage. Excellent, and at least four meals for seven dollars. I held out some of the caramelized vegetables for an omelet, and the rice is wonderful, nuked, with a pat of butter and honey. So many greens are cleaned and pre-packaged, there's always something on sale, and I just dump a can of good tuna (in oil) on top and squeeze on some lemon juice, some fresh ground pepper, one of the best meals ever. A grilled tuna steak kicks this up a couple of notches, I do a tuna steak, glazed in a mustard sauce that is very good. I'm being modest, it's actually sublime. And I do a tuna tartar, that really, if you're expecting anything rather than raw fish, you'll probably be disappointed. I cut a nice fillet of tuna with a very sharp knife, a fine dice, with shallots, some salt and pepper, lime juice just before serving, and serve it with my favorite crackers, buttered saltines. I'd forgotten it was a holiday, not having a calendar, but the radio reminded me, and I immediately decided to not go out and to read all day. You can't be too careful. Wish I'd cleaned up yesterday. I have one five-gallon bucket that's black, it contained road salt, and it heats water nicely on a sunny day, ninety degrees. I have a bath mat I put on the deck, the bucket of water, and my new dipper, which I fashioned from a one-gallon Arizona Green Tea jug. I get pretty clean, put on clean clothes, still need a soak in a motel tub, with bubble bath or lye. I used to care so much more about this, now I don't give a shit. I listen to Neil Young when I'm feeling angry, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, sometimes Mississippi John Hurt. Greg Brown is a great song writer, James McMurtry, and that fucking kid in Australia. There is no way he should be able to play the blues that well. Neil Young, just to be your country man, sings just off key enough. Who else does that, Willie Nelson?