Breakfast Burrito

Eating my way through left-overs. Got up to pee and had a lovely burrito, organic, with an avocado and salsa. Then a wee dram of fine Colorado whiskey. Samara wants to come back and organize my books. When B moved down off the ridge and built his wall of bookcase, he organized his library alphabetically, fiction, non-fiction, and poetry all together. It's a lovely thing. We talked about adventures (the girls and I) we'd had, during the year of the divorce from their Mom. I'd pick them up, every other weekend, and we'd go somewhere, it didn't matter where, camp or get a motel room, and check out the area. Hiking in Utah, dissecting a porcupine, trout fishing on Grand Mesa; and the summers here, when we'd take overnight trips to visit museums. The Toledo museum is a jewel. I instilled in them that a good breakfast was good any time of the day or night, that you should always stop and pull road-kill off the road, and that you should always give a cold beer to those people who stand alone, twirling a sign from Stop to Go where there's construction. The rules of order. I had to take a nap, completely depleted, but completely satisfied. Slept through the phone call that they had gotten to Columbus, but they called back later. Safe, despite the snow. Early flight out and they got home this morning. After days of cleaning, Samara said she had never enjoyed a shower more, and I wouldn't mind a night in a motel room myself. Rhea finally managed to open a perfume sample I'd gotten, and we talked about smelling. It was a Donna Karan scent, frighteningly named Be Delicious, white and coy that I didn't like at all. Big winds pick up in the afternoon, which should dry things a bit before the next freeze/thaw. I need to get out, in the next week or two, and pay a couple of bills: land taxes of $174 for six months, and a grossly inflated electric bill, $200, to cover my back-up heat. After so much stimulation I had to read all day, went through the last round of London Reviews from B, read some fascinating recipes from Imperial Rome, then some Marjorie Rawlings. Quiet outside, no birds or bugs, and I got a bit sentimental about my daughters. Drifting off into remembrance. The snow is gone but more is forecast, changing over to rain, which I need as I'm in scant supply of wash water. The clean-up of the kitchen took many kettles, and Samara insisted on a final rinse of hot potable water. Of course they carried water up the hill, so I'm left with more than I had in the first place, we talked about water use and global warming, and they're up to speed on everything. I'm relieved that cleaning-house music is gone, I could never adjust to that, it's so disruptive, I could wear earplugs, I suppose, or they could wear ear-buds. People still communicate with non-verbal sign, watch some silent movies. For tens of thousands of years, that was language, a patois of grunts and pointings, fucky-fucky under a bearskin. First, nouns, to name a thing, then crude verbs (verbs involve time-factoring), reindeer there then, or here now, a specific animal at a specific place at a particular time. I look at images from Chauvet until I fall asleep.