Second Symptoms

Listening to the radio to figure out what day it is. Plotting three days into the future when you might bathe and wash your filthy hair. You actually eat a can of Spam. It's finite, it's not the end of the world or anything, it's just a few cold days and some snow. I enjoy designing things in my mind, houses or staircases or showers that don't require doors or curtains, and when I start thinking about the technical problems, I lose track of anything else: time, temperature, the age and bite of dimwit. The same with reading, I can get so involved in a book, that I lose track of everything. A semi-hibernation. Even in that state I can stoke the fire, heat up soup, make a trip to the woodshed. I've made the system as simple as possible, I know my limitations. Move a chair close to the stove, and start rereading Pynchon's Mason And Dixon, which is certainly one of the funniest novels ever. Sitting by the stove I can keep a mug of tea hot, and I make a very nice cream soup with butternut squash, onion, and evaporated milk; melt snow all day, boil a gallon of drinking water, do a sink-full of dishes. At thirty degrees outside, the house is comfortable, so I move over to my desk, make a few notes, try and get a handle on my thinking. No easy task. Being in survival mode does beg some questions. Can you continue to live this way? Why are you living this way? What are the alternatives? I could live the same way in a more temperate climate, but I doubt if I could afford it. Dripping water and many more roof-slides, above freezing tonight and fifty degrees tomorrow. One trip out to the woodshed and the snow is a rotten mess. No desire to slog around in that, so I get an early drink and read an Elmore Leonard novel. I made a simplified version of Shepard's pie with canned beanless chili, chilies, onion, and cheese, topped with instant mashed potatoes and baked. I was reading about the potato, over at the island, several articles about french fries, an interesting piece about Peruvian methods of freeze-drying; before the potato famine the average Irish person was eating several pounds a day. The pie was quite good, in that it was hot and filling. By late afternoon all the trees are stripped of snow, the ground has settled several inches. The birds are out. Supposed to be nice for a couple of days, and I look forward to that. I might get to town by Saturday, I might not.