Bottom Line

Had to get rid of the pigs parts so I hauled them down the logging road. I know it'll be a zoo, but it should only take a couple of nights, and I have my firecrackers ready, to keep animals away from the house. Next week I'm going to make a pate with pork liver, mushrooms, and ground pork (onions, chopped pecans, sage, butter, and red wine) if I have enough wash water to clean up afterwards. I'm interested, for a while, about Trump's Supreme Court nominee, because I'm always interested in Constitution issues. It's an interesting document, and I know it well, I could probably do a three minute argument about any aspect of it, pro or con, and/or the amendments, because they shade the meaning, and I'm not patient with people who cling to 19th century definitions. I was reading Proust, a very long book about someone thinking about writing a book, flipping throwing knives into the cork walls in an old brewery outside of Boston. The walls were twelve inches thick, to maintain temperature within a couple of degrees. We were building scenery for the Opera Company Of Boston, and on our breaks we'd practice with throwing knives (props) and we all got pretty good. The lost years. We were working 80 hour weeks, doing world class productions, and there was a guy on the crew from Morocco, Bombylay, and we'd pass the hat and buy him a cheap ticket home, he'd come back with these compressed discs of state bonded and gold-sealed hash. We were high all the time. It was in a bad part of Boston, it later up-scaled and became the first Sam Adams brewery, but at the time it was tough. We befriended a local gang to provide some protection, walk us back and forth to The Green Line which would get us to a large apartment we'd rented in Kenmore Square. Sunday afternoons we'd go to the Orson Wells movie house and watch art films, eat ethnic food, then listen to excellent blues in Cambridge. The opera season was short, three shows in twelve weeks, then ten weeks doing summer stock, and the rest of the year I just walked the beaches of Cape Cod, usually house-sitting, digging clams, night-fishing for cod off the outer beach. Expectation is a bear, but I must say, I love the sense of not knowing. I had a great internal dialog about this today. Proustian. What you might think about what I think.