Creature Comforts

I've slept under a great many overhangs, and I'm always paranoid the ceiling is going to fall. I can't wait to get out in the morning. Feet dangling over the edge, a strong cup of boiled coffee, gruel bubbling away, hey, this is pretty good. Sometimes I have a light blanket draped over my shoulders. Another place in Utah, a huge outcrop of chert, and there's a campsite there, that was used for hundreds of years. The flaked debris is ankle deep. A huge number of failed points. The last time I went back the roof had fallen on the campsite. Further up the canyon, where I had never been, there was a perfectly preserved single family dwelling, Cistern, grain bin, sleeping nooks, fire pits, and I spent the night there, listening to the wind. The next day, halfway across Nebraska, I could no longer sort fact from fiction. The corn was reminding me of sunflowers. It happens, as you get older, one thing reminds you of another. Fact is, I think, a fiction. I don't remember anything the same way twice. Bobby Blue singing on Beal Street, BB King playing back-up; I don't know who the drummer is, but he should be sainted. There's a trumpet solo that would almost make you believe there is a god, and then Mr. King does a break that is a pure transport. I shuffle over to the island and put together a bowl of rice, with sesame oil and soy sauce. Sit in the dark and listen to the blues. I meant to go into town, for the farmer's market, but I didn't need anything so I blew it off. I'd rather not leave the ridge; den up, lick my wounds, attend to apparent needs. That outside world, I can take it or leave it. Sometimes it amuses me. Another trip, I was driving across Kansas.