Modern Times

Self-indulgent. On the other hand I do no harm and don't pose a threat. Shelled out what acorns I'd gathered and broke them into pieces using the great kitchen implement Kim brought me. A tenderizing hammer, whatever they call those. After I shell them out I let them dry for a day or two, so that they'll break apart and not just smash. Actually smashing is fine, but you have to flush them in cheese-cloth, or, as I do, through those filter bags you buy in a paint store for filtering paint, and the tannins flush out quicker, but it's messier to deal with. The creek was running clear, Low Gap Creek, headwaters of the infamous Upper Twin. They still make whiskey on Upper Twin, a dram in front of me now, to which I'd added a squirt of grape juice. An enzyme in grape skins kills the diesel taste. Remember your chemistry: there are two kinds of alcohol. You need a very good thermometer, or, as Ronny said, you waste a good bit more than you should. Better safe than sorry. And it tastes better. I set up a grazing run on the island, sliced olives, some gherkins, tomatoes and cheese in balsamic, a very good salami, some excellent crackers; it's like a great cocktail party except you're the only one there. I thought about translating the bible into Redneck Vulgate, then thought about a particular email. A paragraph of mine had been translated into Chinese then back into English. It was absolutely impossible to figure out what I was saying. Maybe all language is untranslatable. Everything is patois. Almost but seldom completely isolated. Emerson complained about Thoreau talking about fucking turtles. I might have been there, a fly on the wall, but I would never, you know, stir the water. It's difficult enough to understand a bare minimum, a blast on the horn, two ships passing in the night, right, I get it, your ankles are not the most important thing in the world. Excuse me, I was drying mushrooms and toasting chicory root, and your concern was what exactly? That the cat would be out of the bag? What does that mean? Almost anything, right? I heat some water and wash some dishes, fry potatoes in bacon fat, settle down, reading at the island. I've been anxious recently, no specific event or anything, just generally anxious. So, as it happened, the walk today had somewhat cleared my brain, I was thinking about the color blue and Vermeer, wanted get home and look at some pictures. I was just at the last curve, maybe a hundred feet from the ridge, when the fox trotted across the top. Something in her mouth, a grouse probably, she stopped and watched me watching her, then she slipped off into the underbrush. It's always a treat to see her. The last time I was over at the graveyard I thought I saw her, being leery and watchful. I know her den is over there somewhere, but I don't care to know exactly where. Privacy issues. Back in the day, before cameras were everywhere, you might get away with something. Now everyone sees everything. You can almost see my place, if you Google me, you can actually see part of the driveway, if you know what you're looking for. In the fall I stand out like a sore thumb, but once everything is covered with snow, you couldn't find me if your life depended on it. An iridescent flash, sap on the head of a woodpecker. I've seen this bird before, a large Pileated, and I can clearly see the matted head feathers. Must be awkward, but in a shaft of sunlight it's quite beautiful. There have been a great many woodpeckers the last week. Peak season for tree bugs. I love watching them, cocking their heads, listening for sounds under the bark, hopping up and down the trunks. Just my view, it doesn't signify.