Cross Wind

Quick trip to town, chance of snow, so I thought I'd better get back-up whiskey and tobacco. A especially lovely trip as the Redbuds are blooming. Library and Kroger, stopped at the museum to see the new exhibit, huge watercolors, too big, actually, to hang in a house. A pre-show, as the pieces weren't hanging, but were unwrapped and leaning against the wall. Colorful, with areas of interest. The drive home was a two knuckle affair, very gusty wind, stopped at B's to take back a book, had a beer and talked about Bolano and modern fiction; it started pattering rain and I went home. A gust of wind, when I topped the ridge, threatened to push me back down. Certainly blowing over 40 mph. Getting colder, B already had a fire going, April, after all. I have a fire going within minutes, a butter wrapper and some cash register receipts, a few small oak splits. The warming shelf, above the cookstove, is the perfect place to dry kindling. With the downdraft from the wind, it's often difficult to start a fire, but I find that heating the stovepipe solves the problem. There's an algorithm, I'm sure. What the world throws back at you is not pin-point accuracy, it's all very sloppy. This paragraph, for instance, I've started three times. Now, three in the morning, the power came back on, lights, refrigerator, the radio squeaked, and the world was suddenly a different place. Connected is a relative term, you might feel (or I might feel) some connection, but the truth is that we don't actually know. All this shit goes on, the natural world, the societal world, raising kids, earning a living.

Peas poking through and
almost enough greens to make
a salad, more snow.

Later, watching moonbeams,
remembering white flowers
blowing down the road.

All I do is read and write, take some walks to leaven the loaf, reflect on a squashed bottle-cap, monitor various things. Parting the ducks with a wave of your paddle is a perfect end to the day. Duck-breast hash and sex in the glooming. The hubris of the present. Meanwhile the Sassafras buds are swelling and they're quite spicy. I skinned a couple, and sliced them, with a splash of wine vinegar, and think they'd be good in a bitter salad. Found a very nice batch of dandelion on Route 52 along the river. Not sprayed, young and tender, but I didn't have any left because I'd wilted the whole batch in pork fat and eaten them from the skillet. Try this. A clove or two of garlic, a finely minced shallot, in a tablespoon of rendered crackling fat, add a large bunch of greens, add the cracklings. I like this with plain rice and soy sauce. The power was out for hours, then woke me up when it came back on, lights and the fridge, after dark. I didn't know if it was morning or night, and I didn't care; clearly a case for the full breakfast, potatoes, link sausage, a cheese omelet, and toast with marmalade. I serve this, as required, any hour of the day or night. The wind was blowing so hard last night that the house was shuddering. I know I'm over-built by a factor of four, but even grand clippers went down; it was so very dark and the only sound was a roaring through the trees. I have to boot-up to find out what time it is, so I take the time to be sure I saved everything, then started reading and making minor changes on what I'd been writing. This is how it goes, I get a wee dram, roll a smoke, and look for the thread. I remember something and realize I did lose a couple of lines, which isn't bad, actually, because it makes rethink a thought train. B was talking about a place he had lived, in the Pacific Northwest, where they had to canoe to the cabin. See my piece in Over The Edge, Access And Attachment. Listening to some Reverend Gary Davis, considering TR's call that we get down to brass tacks and conspire on at least an oratorio. That weeping willow and that morning dove, I sure do love. There's a bit of stride piano in Gary Davis; listen, when he's not singing. The preacher picked the guitar, waiting for the lord. The laird.