Being Normal

Distraction and interruption. Woke up to a little rain on the roof, rolled over and went back to sleep. It's a lovely thing, to be able to factor your own time. I was up late, finishing two books, both excellent, both by women, and both about worlds beyond my interest. Both very good, great language, and I recommend them: The Argonauts, and A Visit From The Goon Squad. They got me thinking about the perception of what was, and wasn't, important. Of course there's wild divergence, it's a fact of nature. What I might view as important, any given day, would hardly interest anyone else. Who gives a shit about how much Live Oak weighs? Point 95? It barely floats. But it's very strong under compression. The ribs of the USS Constitution are Live Oak, and the planking, at the water-line is sixteen inches of white oak. Hell for stout. A brief lull in light rain. Standing water in the driveway puddles and the ground around them is imprinted with (I love this word) "feetings". In Suffork this is the word for footprints in snow. On closer examination these generic feetings become the tracks of an adult grouse, and at least two yearlings (one of them has a broken nail), the fox, and a raccoon. They must have all come out this morning, because the tracks weren't there yesterday. They knew where the water would be. A striking feature is when the rain is gentle and collects on the spider webs, lovely prismatic droplets caught in the web. A couple of shafts of sunlight penetrate, briefly, and the area around the house explodes into a stunning display. I think about beauty, sitting on my foam pad on the back stoop. Nature is harsh. Thunder drives me inside, to shut down, get the headlamp within reach, get out a legal pad and a pencil. Very dark, rolling thunder, harder rain. The concept of beauty is one we bestow on things or events. One of the most beautiful things I know, that always pops into my head when beauty becomes a subject, is a small flower, quite small, a miniature Iris that actually takes my breath away. A perfect thing. They like disturbed soil and my outhouse sits on the western edge of an old logging road, so I have a nice area of them, between the house and the outhouse. To look at them closely, I have to get down on my knees and use a magnifying glass. I assume everyone carries a foam pad and a magnifying glass. I hardly venture from the house without trail mix and a nip of good Scotch. You never know when you might need to take a break. The chore for the day was to knock down the soot from the top of the stove pipe. This involves leaning out of an upstairs window and tapping the pipe (triple wall stainless steel) with a bamboo pole. I disconnect the stove pipe at the stove and install a collection device, usually quite crude, a paper plate and duct tape, then vacuum afterwards. I want this to be a rainy day, because the first hot fire will throw some cinders. After that, it's clear sailing, I'm incredibly attentive when it comes to fire. And water. Lord knows, I'm attentive to water. I fill my wash-water pot, to clean some dishes tomorrow, also I need to take a sponge bath and wash my hair. This location, the ridge, I'm usually flush with water. It's been several years since I hauled wash water from the museum, just because it was easy; now I boil snow or rain water, add a pinch of salt, and go about my business. Beans and an egg on toast, a can of Mandarin Oranges, is pretty much the world I see, cut-throat trout on a limber pole.