Weeping Willows

Green, I swear to god, those willows on the south side of the river road. So elegant. I did the yearly rake of certain spots, just to shove aside leaves from a few places where I expect morels. Walked down the logging road, examining signs of spring. One thing I notice is the color change, the various pinks that emerge. It's surprising to examine a square yard closely. Under the leaves (it would be interesting to monitor temperatures above and below the leaves) there are dozens of shoots of various plants. They're all sweet. Sugar is the anti-freeze. A side-bar is that when I try to be completely transparent I become more opaque. A product of learning the jargon of a particular discipline, or the patois of a certain region. I had just been thinking about TR (I knew it was Spring Break) when he called. Coming out tomorrow to record. I spent a few hours reading over some things, trying to find the natural voice. It's easiest to find if I'm sitting in my chair, with a drink and a cigaret. I gave a nice reading at Penn Erie standing, but I generally read better sitting, with a drink, most places you can't smoke. Stopping for a sip or a toke is like adding punctuation. Extends the moment. A portage to the next body of water. When Ry Cooder plays Bach the devil is in retreat. I mention that because I took a nap and woke up hungry, and I usually turn on the radio to see what late night treasures I might hear, and it was Cooder, playing some blistering blues. Bless my good luck. TR arrived, loaded with freight and equipment, water, booze, fruit, and high tech recording gear. Sets up, I get a drink, roll a smoke, and we record for a few hours. First thing TR says is that he can't believe how quiet it is, perfect for his purposes. A technical wizard, he sets everything up so I can sit in my chair, have a drink and a smoke while we work. We redo a couple of things. He seems satisfied, but we arrange to do another session in Barnhart's studio. He has a fairly clear idea of what he wants (it's his Master's Degree after all) and I'm not invested, except for wanting to speak cleanly. We chat, while I roll another smoke between pieces, then I read some pages he wants me to read. I stick in a couple of pages I like. It's an enjoyable experience, being taken seriously. Heavy rain moving in, I'd better go. After TR left I ate fruit, cheese, and Wheat Thins with a dollop of French mustard for a long time. He'd brought quite a bit of fruit, plums, grapes, apples, bananas, oranges. The way I eat oranges is interesting, the way I learned in Florida. You always carried one of those specific tools, a long thin-bladed pocket knife with which you cut a smallish hole in the stem end, then wallowed around to break the membranes. You suck out all of the juice, then, when it's squashed and quite dry, you split the orange carcass open and scrape off all the pulp with your teeth. My favorite orange for this was called "Possum Brown" which was a favorite juice orange when I was a kid, those thick-skinned California oranges don't work very well, they split and make a mess.