In Isolation

Weak as a kitten, but otherwise feeling fine. Truth be told that on another thaw day I wasn't going to do much anyway and the kitchen can wait until tomorrow. I'd read an article in the London Review, then shuffle over to get a book, make a mug of tea, mumble imprecations. A very low-key day. Dictionaries are good on days like this. You start with a word like palliative and let it take you where it will. I don't take sick days often, but I'm sure they were mentioned in the contract when I signed on to be a hermit. I'm not a hermit, actually, more a recluse, or just a private person. I used to be able to write in a noisy house, or a coffee shop, but anymore I require isolation and quiet. Drizzle all day, and the snow is gone, the temps dip below freezing. The Late Winter Drudge. The house is a mess, I need to do my laundry, and I need to address the composting toilet, which I've ignored all winter. Dump the bottom drawer, rotate the drum, re-compost the refuse with ashes and kitchen waste. Supposed to be sixty degrees tomorrow. I went out to check the footing and it's not too bad. I could have gotten out and back in but I didn't need anything. There's a list, there's always a list, but nothing critical. I sliced the loin chops and put them in a bowl with balsamic vinegar, soy sauce, minced onion, a secret dried green pepper powder made in New Mexico, and enough olive oil to put a film on top. I go ahead and make a saffron rice, for the pork fried rice, it's better if the rice is left-over, the starches have fully developed. All I have to do is caramelize an onion and a red pepper, sear the meat, and by my estimation, I'll have four to six meals. I'd saved the record of this, because I knew I'd want to know, and it cost a little over eight dollars. Well within my budget. I can eat grits for breakfast, fruit and cheese for lunch, and still slip in at three dollars a day. Taj on the radio, that slack blues guitar, get a wee dram and close my eyes. Excellent. Some problems ahead with the driveway where erosion has eaten at the inside track and it's actually lower than the grader ditch for a couple of hundred feet. Has to be dug out, and I'm not going to do it, I'll pay Ryan or someone with a younger back. You dig out the fines into the inside tire-track, and build a levee to control the water, Hydrology 101. It seldom works, water is impossible to control, but if you get the water to flush the channel, it might work for a while. When it clogs all bets are off, and it will clog, a stick, some leaves, a natural dam, the water diverts. You can't control this. A few years ago, when I walked the driveway almost every day, I'd poke at little obstructions with my walking stick, take off my gloves and remove a wad of leaves, now I mostly sit alone and read, and I don't walk the driveway that often. If I stick to the logging roads up top, there's not so much up and downing. Finished the 1936 Oregon novel Sarie sent and I highly recommend it. Honey in the Horn. Regionalism, in all the best sense, paying attention to detail, hundreds of connections with other writers writing from/in the natural world. Makes me think about Barry Lopez, so I reread some of his essays. I do have to deal with shit and compost, and then I'll have to clean up. Supposed to be warm tomorrow, and I'll try not to spend the whole day in the sun, reading London Reviews, for which thank God and B, they got me through my stomach upset. I could, technically, go to town, but the liquor department at Kroger is closed on Sunday, and Monday is forecast clear, so I'll spend some time trying to get back into rhythm, go to town on Monday, unless the forecast is still good for Tuesday, in which case I'd put off the trip for another day. Nice to be able to just hole up for a couple of days, eat canned peaches and lick your wounds.