Night Noise

Reconstructing what I know must have happened. Once my heart beat is back to normal and I realize I'm not be raiding by some government organization. Four in the morning (perfect time for a raid) and very dark. A mouse trap, but then what? Remember I had left the spatula in my fried egg skillet and one of the traps was next right next to it because I hate it when mice lick that skillet. Strength of the new trap and death throes had bumped the skillet and the spatula had fallen to the floor. The very idea of a raid had energized me, so I knew I was going to get up, but I was serenely tangled and warm, wrapped in a blanket, so I put it off for a few minutes. Knew I'd have to pee, knew I'd have to get up and start a fire. Wearing pajama bottoms (Indians and buffalo), my cashmere sweater and Linda's hat, pull on my bathrobe and go outside to pee. Cold and frosty. I'd usually pee in a coffee can or something, but it's nice to go outside if you're already awake anyway. Which means I'll probably get a wee dram, roll a smoke and put off making coffee for a while, read what I was writing last night, make a few changes. Which means I'll probably blow off the day, maybe split some wood, carry a few loads into the house, walk out to the graveyard and think about the dead. I know I'll get side-tracked by something, pull out a few books, mumble, have a sexual fantasy, consider alternate universes, eat left-overs. I ended up giving myself some grief about this, my failures and the pain I'd caused. Not that it was any big deal, but it was interesting to note that failure was a better way to learn. One thing I've learned is that if things are going smoothly nobody is learning anything. If she leaves you, takes the pick-up and the dog, it's fifteen degrees and you're living in a tent, you've got some problems. It's not a good time to roll into a ball and play the hibernating bear. I tend to read and write my way out of logjams; running works, building a staircase, fly-fishing, I have a friend that lays brick and carves spoons. Glenn called, to tell me that my inflatable globe had been delivered, UPS had notified him that the package had been delivered, which in my case means that it's hanging from a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I've never owned a globe, though I'm crazy about maps, and I envision many happy hours looking at the relationship of places. ("In his later years, it's said he befriended a fox and played with a beach ball.") Glenn was much taken with my mouse morgue and the death shrouds. It struck me as funny too, even while I was doing it. I thought at the time that it would be very funny (if the plastic would hold up to be frozen) to put one of those organizer units, with the small drawers, in the freezer, and have the mice in individual trays, so I could bring in the grieving family and have them identify the corpse. As it is, what I do is line them up in two rows on a piece of 1x6 I keep in the freezer, and I never used to wrap them because I didn't care about freezer burn, but they are attractive in their small death shrouds. If you let the mouse freeze solid you can reuse the shroud. I've written for fifty years to be able to say that. That's part of it, what I was thinking about before Glenn called, amusing yourself. I'm a cheap date, watching coal barges push upstream is pretty exciting for me, I swoon at the idea of jalapeno poppers, I can no longer fly or ride in an elevator, no higher than sweet corn, no lower than a sweet potato. B calls because his daughter had asked him what he thought I'd be doing for the holiday, and they ask me down. I'll probably go, not so much for the food, which will be very good, but for the company. I can duck out when the kids wear me down. Stimulation in moderation. I design a railing for the simple two-step up on the back porch and make a list of the couple of things I need to buy, a bag of concrete and a four by four, the hand-rail itself will be a lovely bent dogwood I found in the woods. It'll take me a couple of hours to put together. Any more, when I'm bringing in an armload of wood, it's nice to be able to touch a railing. I need to get a can of silicone/air for the wheelbarrow, the tire always goes flat but one can gets me through the winter. It's nice to wheelbarrow wood to the back stoop. I feel like a technological genius using the wheelbarrow. Three wheelbarrow loads is two ricks, two ricks is four days' wood even if it's very cold. You can only burn so much wood. Quality of life is directly linked to the size of the fire-box. Mad Tom's Algorithm. Linda saw immediately that the little shrouds would be quite mysterious hanging on the line. Sure as shit someone would show up when I was ironing them, and I'd have to explain what I was doing. Well you see... It's just an installation for me, some dead mice, some funeral shrouds. If I run this show all winter, it might be seen by one or two people. Glenn thought I should photograph it, but I don't have a camera. It's twelve mice in two rows of six, tucked in their death shrouds. None of these mice have died and gone to heaven, most of them have a broken neck and a drop of blood at the corner of their mouth. " Food for worms, dear Percy". Nothing is almost as good as something. Dark matter.