Full Stop

Not much to be done. I'll wash dishes tomorrow, do my cooking, and that'll take up most of the day. I'll sit over at the island for most of the time, caramelizing onions, reading, talking to myself. It takes hours to cook the beans, then ladle out the diced jowl and turn it into cracklings and lovely rendered pork fat. Add the cracklings back to the beans. I'll need to carry in wood, clean out ashes, and sweep up a bit. They're saying below zero Thursday and Friday, so that's the next hurtle. The last re-supply trip was certainly timely. At the mercy of the weather, which is so true, it's actually almost shocking. I won't get out for a week or two, but that's fine, except for missing the library, and even that isn't critical since I have a house full of books. I break out a clean set of long underwear and the insulated overalls, the simple act of peeing becomes a major event. Not much more I can do, if I fuck up, I freeze to death, though the chances of that are slim. If it gets very cold, you build a tent, with ski poles and a blanket, right in front of the stove. Everybody knows that. A fire at the cave mouth is a good idea. It was so quiet all night, I knew it was snowing, then blue dawns on the complete snow scene. All the branches covered, and when the wind picks up later, the tree snow will go on forever. It's stunningly beautiful. Generally light snow falling, with more emphatic bursts. Lovely. I move my base of operation over to the island and tend the fire, start the bean soup, a breakfast of hash and eggs, bring in the first bucket of snow to melt for wash water; and I'm reading the entire time, an Elmore Leonard novel wedged open with my book rock. I have a bath mat inside the back door, and a whisk broom, but I still track snow and ice everywhere, and the white is so intense I have to wear sun glasses inside. I can't listen to the political bullshit on the radio, so I listen to Miles Davis. Chopping onions, watching out various windows as the snow releases. Cascades. A silent battle of white explosions. Bitches Brew, after listening to Kind Of Blue, Miles is truly an American genius, leaves out almost everything, and yet. Like Beckett. Eight inches of snow when I go out to sweep a path across the back porch and sweep off the two steps. Not too cold, and no wind yet so I made a hot toddy, rolled a smoke, got my foam sitting-pad and sat on the stoop. The loudest noise is the soft puff of a branch load of snow falling on snow. Inside, I've made cracklings and the house smells great: campfire bacon with a hint of sassafras. And I do manage to take all day to make a pot of beans and crackling bread. I add a can of chopped spinach to the pinto beans, remembering a Provincetown recipe of chick peas and kale, then thicken the broth with some left over mashed potatoes. Hearty, and very good with toasted cornbread. In good spirit all day, to the point of laughing out loud at some sophomoric puns that I won't repeat. You had to be there. I have Basho out, the beautiful SUNY edition, and it's arranged chronologically, and therefore falls into the seasons, so it's easy to flip open to the winter of 1690-91 and see what Matsuo was up to. Also I had out the Emily book, The Gorgeous Nothings, and I was finding odd parallels. What we choose to notice, or what chooses us to notice. It's dark, it's cold outside, I bank a good fire, and crawl into my down bag. Beyond a certain point, there's nothing you can do.