Something Simple

Split wood, haul water. Either mindfulness or mindless. I had a new five-gallon pickle bucket that had filled with rain water, and took a sponge bath, washed my hair. Imagined a cosmetic line. A rinse you might use to purge base thoughts. I just need to soak in a hot bath for an hour, then take a shower and scrub off a layer of skin. I can get a room at the Super Eight for sixty bucks, sushi from Kroger, a movie on cable (I haven't seen a movie in ten years), and rub lotion into my tired feet. I vacillate between thinking I indulge myself too much or not indulging myself enough. I steamed an artichoke, they were finally affordable, and made a ginger/horseradish mayo. This was so good I had to laugh. Artichokes make very good paper. Any fiber works, okra, sacred cotton. I took a nap, early evening, got up to pee and turned on the radio, middle of the night, and it's Messiaen. The Quartet For The End Of Time, second only to the Cello Suites on my all time list. I have to get a drink and roll a smoke, sit in the dark, and marvel at the way music can key emotion. Or the way smell can, and even sight. We only partially control this. The hard-wired shit we can't do anything about. Sex in new mown hay, the first time you looked up from your mother's breast and saw something else, a perfect martini with two olives. I seldom pre-judge anything. Tossing the caber, for instance, and whatever that large rock is called. Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. I usually come in last. It's not so much that I'm a loser as that I don't give a shit. The Messiaen was first played in prison camp Stalag VIII A, January, 1941. Violin, cello, clarinet, and piano. There's much documentation of the event, from the 300 or so prisoners and guards that were there. Even the circumstances of a documented event are questionable. I did an impromptu reading of a book of poems, A Summer In Hell, sitting on the tailgate of my truck, just before leaving Colorado. It was impassioned, there were six people there, it was snowing. I've heard several people describe that reading and I know they weren't there. Rodney yells from the driveway. You always yell, when you approach a hermit, from beyond shotgun range, lest you get shot. I pay him for the clearing and he's anxious to finish the floor insulation. We strike a deal, and I'm thinking the winter looks better. If he finishes the floor insulation, which he figures will only take a few hours, and I get the woodshed filled, the rest of it is just logistics. Shovel a path to the outhouse, a bag of potatoes and a few carrots. I actually save money in the winter because I can't get out to spend any. If I stay home, with a pot of stew and a dozen books, I'm actually making money. Enough, at any rate, to imitate a midge.