Packing Art

Making up for lost time. We'd have been even faster, but we improved on all the packing for items sent here for this show. We roll the canvas banners on archival tubes, we alter some of our shipping crates for the Carter paintings. All museums do this, you can always take a crate that's too large and fill the extra space with ethafoam blocks. We pack the two Cleveland Museum paintings in their over-kill crates; one weighs 180 pounds for a painting that weighs 28, the other weighs 220 pounds for a painting that weighs 42. These could survive any accident up to train. I have to make a few pit-stops, but we work hard all day, sore feet and legs from the ceramic-tile-over-concrete floor. I actually sit and rest a couple of times, which I rarely do. Thinking about a bench, for the driveway walk, there's a place halfway where there's room enough. I could keep a foam pad on a shelf underneath. I quickly design a Universal Driveway Bench in my head, think about the construction. From a recent dumpster, I have some offcuts of treated stock. 8x8 legs, with a 2x8 shoe on the bottom of each, to spread the footprint. The actual seat could be anything, a beam offcut, a plank from the river, a flat rock; cross-brace the legs in some clever way, using bolts, I think, because I could loosen and tighten them, infinite adjustment. I think you would expect Infinite Adjustment with a Universal Driveway Bench. Reading about the high Arctic, as I always do this time of year, I wonder how I might accomplish the bench with caribou antlers and walrus rawhide. If the seat even needed to be secured, I'd do it from underneath, so there wasn't a hole that could fill with ice. As I think about this, I see there are several models, even within the field of Universal Driveway Benches. There's the clinker-built model, that works fine, but you have to physically make adjustments. There's another model that uses the Mar's Rover technology and it costs a lot more. I could make a few calls, but I guessing $250 million, for, really, a top of the line bench; or I could build one for nothing, which would serve equally well. It was great getting out today, I needed some contact, and solving these puzzles of packing with two bright guys is a fucking treat. One more cold night, then balmy. I consider my wardrobe. I need to get to the laundromat. I start considering a raid for water and dry socks. Take a few scalps, the legend grows. It's all bullshit. I was ever looking for a safe place to sleep, denning up with whatever fat I could muster, curling into a fetal position, and sleeping for a couple of months. I certainly wasn't trying to make a point. The most sensual thing that happens for me, is I slip into my down bag, under a down comforter, and I'm warm, and don't care if the rest of the world freezes. Read more...

Recovering

That was really strange, bad intestinal business, hit after dark, finally just went to bed, up a couple of times in the night. A bit better this morning and much better now. Mostly read today, staying hydrated, a couple of ventures out, but feeling quite debilitated. Rarely sick in that way. Don't really remember the last time. Still lovely outside, but getting close to melting temps, tomorrow and the next few days should be a mess. Hard slog in the mud, light packs, something every day; after we get the show packed, I'll need to make a frozen-driveway run for drinking water, either early or late one day, in and out before it thaws. Just another way circumstance dictates. Life ruled by a driveway. And that stomach thing, I thought the coon was still good. By their stomachs they are ruled. I envy serious predators for their ability to process carrion, so much marginal food goes to waste. Very still, even the frozen last leaves, clinging to a White Oak I can see out my window, are not moving. The current indicator for wind. I gave up on the sock, it always froze and sagged. Told you nothing but that it was cold, which was not the information you were after. My wind-indicators are different every year, usually the frozen leaves of a specific tree, but sometimes something artificial I might rig, to watch how ice behaves. This year I have loop of clothes-line, tacked to a couple of trees, with nylon drops every 2 feet, 6 inches long, I just wondered what they'd do, how they'd collect the ice. It's not even science, just a sideline. Fucking whipped, I have to go to bed. Read more...

Done

Exhausted. And I forgot to get one of those large pot pies with 50 grams of fat. Had to get to town, snow forecast for the afternoon, so I got up and out early, no problem, the roads clear. Stop at the lake and it is frozen solid with a smooth even coat of snow, except for the several polynyas, open leads, that will persist until temps stay below zero. Usually open water where Mackletree Creek comes in, and one other spot where something thermal, a hot spring? keeps the water open. The crows and ducks are happy to see me, with my fare of stale crackers from the museum. Stop at the bank, go to the library, buy whiskey, fill the truck with gas, over to Kentucky for tobacco and papers, then Kroger, where I buy almost too much to carry. Juice, bouillon cubes, sausage, eggs, bread, cream, coffee, egg noodles, several dry soups, butter, cheese, tinned Mandarin Orange segments (to which I have developed a jones), and a large bar of dark chocolate. On the way home I stop, again, at the lake, to organize my load, pack the pack. It's too much, really, a full backpack, maybe 35 or 40 pounds, plus a canvas bag I must carry in one hand, with the eggs and bread. With crampons and a walking stick, I feel like a Sherpa heading toward the pass. Soon as I get back to the house, I dine mightily on sausage and eggs and toast, a mug of bouillon with a pat of butter melted on top. Can't believe I forgot the pot pie. Cut a bunch of wood, split some, move another rick under the woodshed. Bring in a few arm-loads, and that's it. I'm done. I'm rarely so completely physically exhausted, every muscle group pleading for sweet release. I allow myself an early drink, whiskey and frozen maple sap, and collapse on the sofa. I think I'm ready for the week ahead, 8 days to pack the show, truck it to Columbus on the 20th. Everything in due course. My hands are cramped, my shoulders are sore, I'm bleeding from several minor wounds, but I feel great, I've done what I needed to do, and to hell with everything else. Mica snowflakes define the air. The world is muffled under a blanket. Nothing moves. The last monk comes in, with his burden of firewood, shakes off the snow and laughs. The crow, he says, told him he was a fool, but he already knew that, and had to laugh. At Janitor College there was a really cool instructor who, essentially, taught plunging. He'd studied in Germany, a bright guy, lost his dissertation down a storm sewer in Berlin, so never got his terminal degree and was always a bit edgy about that. Still, there were several plunging techniques that were named for him, the dude was a legend. Plunging 411, the final, he was famous for creating extremely vile clogs. You either sink or swim. Bad analogy. You either clear the clog or end up up to your neck in shit would be closer to the money. But visiting with him was a real treat. Mica was his name, why I remembered him, and he had a kind Polish-Country-Zen thing which hung around him, that you could actually feel. Fucking Mica, offed himself as a protest against salt and sugar levels in packaged foods, flaming himself off a ski-jump into a fiord in Norway. To vary my diet, I have the chili on cheese-grits. Excellent. Read more...

Coons

Fates conspire. Two in the morning and a God awful noise. I cleaned some nameless leftovers out of the fridge yesterday onto the compost pile and there are two coons squared off over frozen bits of soup. They hiss like cats. They woke me just in time to catch the fire, before the house gets really cold. Fortuitous. It's 6 degrees, no new snow, clear as a bell; I'm in long underwear, bathrobe, gloves and a hat. James McMurtry, "No One To Talk To When The Lines Go Down". Robert Earl. I love the radio in the nether reaches of morning. It's like another person without all the problems that would entail. Have to laugh, the coons, in the beam of my flashlight, do look like bandits. A cartoon world. Supposed to get almost up to freezing tomorrow, 28, 30 degrees, fucking balmy. I need a bath. If I get to town, the museum is closed tomorrow, I could strip down, wash my hair, scrub my privates; more snow forecast, but changing to rain by Wednesday. Subject to natural forces. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. It's not supposed to be easy, an old logging road will always be overgrown with various vines, thorns that scrape any exposed skin. A little blood is not a big deal, scars are a rite of passage. I have a constant burn, at the base of my right thumb, where I always bump the hot firebox with my hand, rearranging burning logs. You'd think I'd learn. But no. I managed to hit myself in the forehead with piece of wood yesterday, in an incident I should have predicted, but I was in the throes of an internal dialog, considering the epistemology of something else. What we could understand about the behavior of another species. What, for instance, the fox might make of my doing something. I had jammed the wedge in a piece of Slippery Elm and stood up to strike it fully with the maul. I knew there was tension but I thought I was exempt. I underestimated the tension. When I released the confused grain, with a mighty swing, one piece, released, struck me between the eyes. I set back on my heels, blood running down my nose. Who would have thought. I like being cold and hungry, to a certain extent, it keeps me alert, and centered. But I don't like being stupid, which I manage with great regularity. If it had been the wedge I'd be dead. Stupid. Never underestimate kinetic energy. Wood cut under tension. One thing about living alone is you don't have anyone else to blame. Whatever you have to lose is your own fault. It happens all too often, you don't pay attention, you're buried in the detritus of the past. I don't mean that in a personal way. History is a fact of life. Hard times. Not hard to find. That bottle-neck slide makes it easier. Rooted in the blues. I need to nap. Read more...

Ice Crystals

My Dad was ninety yesterday and won't make any extreme efforts to stay alive, nonetheless, still alive. Still cooks breakfast, always his specialty, for anyone around. Rereading Zane Gray. Mom must be 82 or 3, she's lost track, nobody knows, she might as young as 81 or as old as 85, she says she's lost track, but I think she knows. I go out to get an arm-load of wood and ice forms where my nose drips. Near zero, I know from experience, but calm. Winter camping, I can always retreat to my down bag, sleep through the worst of it. Ratified. Who I am. Slept too long this morning, this weather is tiring, and didn't catch the fire, had to start all over. When I get it going I go outside and split more pine starter sticks and kindling. Cut and split some Sycamore. Brunch of cheese grits with acorn meal, biscuits, cup of tea with a slug of whiskey; finish "Arctic Dreams" and start rereading "About This Life", I'm a Barry Lopez fan. McCord mentioned Christopher Smart, especially "Jubilate Agno" and I'm sure I have a copy somewhere but I can't find it. During the course of looking for it, I count 250 linear feet of bookshelves, and there are thousands of small press books still in boxes. Before I change out of insulated boots, I don sunglasses and walk out the logging road to the south. The sun is so bright on so much snow, the shadows so distinct, it's hard to tell what's real. I sit for so long, on a stump I frequent, that I'm in danger of frostbite; no chance of fire, I take off my gloves and roll a last smoke. Two crows, ragged and raucous, wake me from my reverie and I slog home. The house is a mess, the sawdust and leaves that I track inside; I sweep a few places: where I change footgear, where I perch at the island, where I place odd chunks of wood to thaw in front of the stove; but it barely makes a dent in the extent of mess. I'm dirty, but it's too cold to even consider cleaning myself. I need to go to town tomorrow, carry a heavy pack up the hill, cut the rick I've stacked under the woodshed. These are mandates, not negotiable. Lopez recounts talking with an Eskimo hunter, who, when asked about religion, said he didn't have any, what he had was fear, that the margin of error was so small. I know what he means. If this weather were to continue, I'd be forced to shoot a deer, and I know where they are, so it's not a logistical problem for me, where to build my stand, or anything like that, I'd shoot a doe bedded down, because I know where they sleep, and there'd be none of that adrenal panic that taints the meat. I've shot more sleeping deer than anyone I know, a brain shot with a .22. I'm a merciless hunter when I need to be. The last deer I killed was from an upstairs window in my house, right through the screen. Fuck convention. When I told the last Board President, I thought he was going to choke to death. I had to tell the story several other times. Then it become a 'set piece', a routine, and where is the reality in that? Classic, right? I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about that. When I make something out of whole cloth, it might be more real than the closest observation. Read more...

Agape

Cold like this, it's best to shed any impatience. Napped early yesterday, got up, stoked the fire, then back to bed, let the fire go out before dawn. Got up, cleaned the stove-pipe, knocked pitch from the spark-arrestor cap, an awkward job I manage by leaning out an upstairs window and poking it with a bamboo pole. Finally get a good fire going, suit-up and get outside. Bring in several arm-loads of wood first thing, frozen and so cold that it brings down the temperature in the house and creates chilly air currents. I do this first thing, so that I'll be outside, raising my body heat, while the wood comes to room temp. Supposed to be really cold, probably zero here, 10 degrees in town, so I cut and split some very dry oak beam scraps I had stashed under the house, put them in a separate pile for late-night -- early-morning fires. I cut some very dry Osage Orange (from the Wrack Show) for night sticks. Decided on chili, which I'll eat on a bed of mashed potatoes, and I've got some lamb shanks, four of them, which I put on to cook in chicken broth, early; salt and pepper, several large dry various chilies. I stir them whenever I come inside. A pot of black beans cooking on the stove too. Mid-day I have to raise both of the pots up off the stovetop because I've gotten it so hot (the oven was spiked at 600 degrees, no telling how hot it really was; I knew a guy in West Virginia that hand-made knives and he annealed them in his cookstove) for which I use those 'eyes' that hold pots on a gas range. They may have another name, I'm sure they do, but the used appliance store where I buy mine calls them 'eyes' and that's good enough for me. By 1 in the afternoon I'm done with working outside. Plan for tomorrow is to cut and stack another outside rick into the shed. Five inches of new snow, on top of a slightly compressed five inches; I sweep a path to the woodshed, a path to the outhouse. The seat for the outhouse hangs from an 'S' hook, from a beam near the stove. Thank you, Mister Buckeye. Come inside, take off the outer layers, don the bathrobe over Carhartt bibs and long underwear, a second layer of socks and over-sized fleece lined slippers. Ready to tackle the chili. Quickly shed the bathrobe, as it is really warm, standing over the stove; then the hooded sweatshirt. I might chill the pot of shanks, let the fat congeal and save it for some other project, if I was cooking this for guests, but I want fat in my diet right now, so I don't remove any (in fact, I cook the onions in bacon fat and add that too) in this process. Strip the meat from the bones, add it back to the broth, add the beans, the onions, some diced tomatoes, several chili powders. This is really good stuff. Tomorrow, it will be terrific. That's the wrong word. But at least frightening in its food value. Served on mashed potatoes. Nothing surprises me anymore. Read more...

White-Out

Just a little new snow this morning, storm delayed. Get to the museum, open up, get the mail; bills for the month in the mail, final child-support payment. Go to the UPS store, to check on boxes for the diaramas, and on the way back it starts to snow. I don't even think about it, stop at Kroger (never walk up the hill without carrying something) for some canned chilies, some rice, some southern-style frozen biscuits Mom turned me on to. She says they're ok, which is high praise from a world-class biscuit maker. When I get to the bottom of the driveway it's snowing hard, the walk up magical, still a bit of sunlight bleeding through and there's a mica-like quality to some of the flakes. I stop, mid-slog, and hold out my insulated black-gloved hand. The frozen stuff is actually in several forms, lovely flakes, some tiny frozen balls, some flat stuff, in between. It's the balls that are acting like mica. Unload, store things away, then suit-up and go cut a few sticks, split a thin twisted round of Red Maple. Snowing harder, I finally get too uncomfortable and go inside. Colder temps coming, so I let the stove burn down, before stoking again, divert the smoke directly out the stovepipe. A good cookstove allows a setting, with its two dampers, that allows the cook to clean the smoke-chase and only get slightly smoked himself. I dump the ashes, and clean the chase, all into a two gallon galvanized pail, with a bent bail, that is perfect for this job, because its height wedges under the skirt of the stove and minimizes mess. Talk about a mess, the house is a disaster. In a fine way. Clearly, someone lives here. And judging from the neatly folded piles, he wears several different outfits. And I'd say, from a look outside, that he'll need them all in the next few days. Not exactly a blizzard. I can't keep the floor clean, I'm in and out too often, tracking wood-chips and frozen leaves. The frozen world. I have to take a last walk, before I change clothes and cook three crab cakes, while I'm still well-suited. And it's beautiful, and so dry, the snow just brushes off. It's black and white and gray, the world, it's not either-or. I ate, I shaved. I think I need a nap. This life is exhausting, I stopped at CVS and bought a wind-up alarm clock. I have to keep the home-fires going. I hate the ticking of a clock, so I'll sleep on the sofa, and put the clock upstairs, I just need the alarm, to stoke the stove. One stick every two hours will keep the house warm enough and doesn't require adjusting dampers. I'll need to dump some hot ashes, but I have a system for that. Read more...

Mercy

Another brutal day but I had to get to the museum, touch base with D, and a meeting with several board members and a couple of construction guys to see what we might do about the rather serious roof drainage problems. Before I left home I brought in arm-loads of split wood, split some more, and split pine starter sticks. Roads not bad except for Mackletree through the State Forest, but that section of road is so lovely, even after the big spring fire, that I don't mind driving at 5 mph. A congregation of turkeys, more than 40, working the mast, and I stopped to watch them. I could have killed one with a slingshot out the truck window. When they're aggressively feeding they sound like a young war. Another snowfall (it's never really stopped completely) forecast for tonight, so I brought home another large pack of supplies. Probably can't get to work tomorrow, so plan to make a soup of some kind, start rereading Lopez, "Arctic Dreams", and the usual, melt snow, chop wood. My system last night was perfect, for the weather, went to bed early, got up at 2 and stoked the fire, cranked up the computer, answered a few emails, had a scant drink and a couple of smokes, maybe wrote a line or three, there might be a really short post, don't remember whether I sent it or not, or if it's in Mail Waiting To Be Sent, a file I love, or maybe I just love the phrase. When I think about doing a book of postings, that's always the working title in my head. Coming home there was another flock of turkeys in the remains of cornfield, just before the turn-off onto Mackletree. Sleek, glossy black against the snow. If I make the squash soup, I'll have to use evaporated milk, but I've been wanting to try that. We canned goat's milk, in Missip (essentially the same process) and it made a superior custard. I brought home an avocado, so not local of me, but I needed a treat, and better it should be an avocado from Mexico than a piece of candy. Soon as I had a fire rekindled, I ate both halves, with lime juice in the hole. Small pleasures. I don't cut myself much slack, but about once a month I am going to eat an avocado. Maybe twice a year I eat a good bar of chocolate. I love Key Lime pie and I might make as many as 4 a year. I don't have a sweet tooth. For reasons I can't explain I put a scant teaspoon of sugar in my first cup of coffee in the morning, none, after that. I make 5 large biscuits and sausage gravy for 2 of them, have a third with butter and wonderful berry jam. I'll toast the other 2 tomorrow. This weather isn't so bad. Once, in Telluride, it didn't get above zero for several weeks. That was tough, this is merely inconvenient. We have a show to pack. Read more...

Decked Out

Done for the day. Found the shaving and hair-washing sweatshirt, so I can clean up a bit. Melted snow from dawn (the latest of the year) until late afternoon, 30 gallons of snow for 3 gallons of water. Pegi called from the museum and told me not to come in, even the main roads snow-covered and dangerous. I told her to turn right around and go home. Serious weather, cold house, start a fire and suit-up to go out. I figured to hand-cut wood for today, and fill the wood-box for tonight. Keeps me warm and gives the house the illusion of warmth. Not supposed to get above freezing until next week. It's rough going, the house is a mess, tomorrow's list is even longer. I'm going to bring everything that's split into the house, rick it up, so it can warm up. Then split rounds, all the while cutting enough wood for tomorrow. It's important in this weather to make one of the last chores of the day choosing all the sticks to start tomorrow's fire. I have a staging area. Make sure there's paper, in the proper slot of the top apple crate I use for storing miscellaneous kitchen stuff. I tend to start a better, quick, fire, if I pre-assemble the components. Need to get another cylinder of propane for the torch, another good way to start an important fire. Sometimes you don't mind messing with it a bit, maybe learning something, a new combination, but cold mornings, you want a fast fire. Today went well, I don't mind the weather, as long as I'm home: track up the house, in with frozen wood, out with the bucket to bring in snow, the kettle on the stove, burn another odd knot. There's a rhythm to it that pleases my physical self, even the discomfort is only marginal; throw on another caribou skin and it doesn't matter that much if it's cold inside. I have some outfits, now, that I never would have imagined myself dressing up in. They work, they're not interested in fashion, and, as long as no one sees me, I'll probably not be arrested. What's the charge? "Writer Apprehended On Snowshoes, In Bathrobe, With Funny Hat." I'm not saying we profile, but there I am. I put both palms in the air, my little hands are clean, I swear. It's the world that's ugly, the cultural world, the natural world is fine, almost ok, struggles against what we throw, craps, waits for the paper-work, and survives in the occasional bird-song. Sounded like trumpet to me. I'm almost completely lost, when I strike an old logging road, with which I'm not familiar, but leads to a drainage I recognize. Close enough. I know where home is. Don't go walking after dark, unless you're sure of your space. Rather than disturb sleeping dogs I'll cut to higher ground. I know where I am, now, that nameless ridge to the north and east. I must have crossed the road, lost in thought, but I know where I am, and in some ways, that's all that's important. A scant thousand steps away. Buck up. The worst is yet to come. The consequences are merely that the house is cold, and I'm used to that. High, wide and handsome. Suits me to a tee. Nuke some chicken broth and get on with your life. That's not an angel, just another mouse caught in a trap. Don't make something out of nothing. Jackson Browne has a nice voice, a certain strain. No way you could be prepared for what actually happens. Usually I wouldn't answer the phone, but for some reason I did, and it was an old friend, we talked, as if no time had passed, but of course, time had passed, and I had no idea what was going on. An intervention? Who would know me well enough?Elvis Costello, "Ship Of Fools" sail away from me. It's later than I thought. I have to go. A date with a sleeping bag. Read more...

Philosophy Now

When you reach a certain degree of cold, all bets are off. What did Wilder say, "pass up the chairs." One thing I like about these new writing gloves Linda sent, is that they're not alike, the cabling is different. Eccleptopia. Nothing is what it seems. I found a trail of lobate sassafras leaves that looked like deer tracks, but they were merely leaves. We leap to assumptions because we want things to be true. After a day starting at zero, climbing to less than ten degrees, a day that starts at 20 seems almost balmy. Three goals today, shave (in a very cold house, I find the sweatshirt I surgically altered last winter), a quick run into town (I need the extra hike-in to carry supplies), and chainsaw a batch of doubles, so I have pieces that just need splitting. More snow, but it's fairly dry stuff and the roads aren't too bad. More tonight, more tomorrow, more the next day. Fortunately, we have a while to pack up the Circus Show, which might be necessary. Much worse than today and I just can't make it in. I was in 4-wheel drive the first five miles, out to Rt.125. I use 4-wheel drive much more here than I ever did in Colorado (above 6,000 feet). Picked up a couple of pot-pies, I can handle the fat in this weather and I love them, comfort food. This is brutal weather, most especially if I leave home, so the next four days will be a trial. Flushed a grouse, walking down, and it surprised me so much, wrapped as I was, and wrapped in thought, that I stumbled and almost fell. The truck was buried, and the heater has decided to not work. Runs fine, and there is that. The only vehicle I passed going out was a propane delivery truck and we both came to a complete stop, then crept by each other slowly. These are not even secondary roads, and the only set of tracks is right down the middle, because you can't really see the road, so when you do pass someone coming the other way, you have to kind of feel for the edge. With the propane truck, I end up off on the verge, but it's frozen solid and I'm in 4-wheel drive, so it's not a problem. Town is nearly clear, by comparison. Reverse the trip going home, I stop at the lake and shift into gear, feed the despondent ducks, huddled in the shelter house, and drive at a sedate 10 mph the last five miles. Passed no one, backed up into my spot, shouldered a maybe 20 pound pack. It's like that temperature thing. I'd much rather carry five 20 pound loads, than four 25 pound loads. If I'm carrying a load I stop an extra couple of times, there's always something to see. I often stop and read track, sometimes I almost understand, a story in the snow. The house is cold, but I kick the fire up and still have some cutting to do outside, and I just walked up the hill with a pack, so I'm heated, you know, warm. Hermeneutics is important, but firewood is critical. I'm just saying. Read more...

Later

Wearing this many layers, I have to start unbuttoning before I even feel the urge to pee. A guessing game. Some squeals, death by night. I don't even go see what. Something met its match. Zero at dawn, I scramble to get started, dump ashes, knock down the creosote, brew coffee, wrap in a blanket over my bathrobe, curl up fetal on the sofa, finish "Suttree". Cheese grits and left-over toasted biscuits for breakfast. Brutal outside, 4 degrees and windy, I have to wear a facemask, and the brimmed insulated Gortex hat with earflaps, even thus, my time outside is limited to short walks and trips to the woodshed. Dabble in Proust, madman in his cork cage, but what a style. One of my favorite phenomena happens, sparkling crystals in the air all around. They're almost weightless, so drift about. Tiny drops of moisture pulled out the air by the cold. So beautiful, filling the hollow. I think I once knew the name for this event, but I've forgotten it. Last time out for the day, I was walking toward the afternoon sun and didn't have my sunglasses, an instant headache, and I turn right around, to get back home and self-medicate. By 4 o'clock the house is almost warm, and I can shed the blanket. I finally get the stove to spike out (the oven thermometer goes to 600, the stove weights 800 pounds, a lot of stored heat) with a mixture of Osage Orange and Red Maple. If a day starts at zero or below, I don't intend to do much. Mostly I shuffle between the island, close by the stove, and the dictionary table, at the other end of the room. Today I look up 14 words, check 3 Greek mythologies (fucking Dahlberg), and spend at least an hour rereading definitions in "Home Ground", my pick as book of the decade. A great day, fairly normal, for a day I allow myself to take almost completely off. I thought about going to town, carrying a load of supplies up the driveway, but blew it off, when, at 2 o'clock I looked like a rag-picker. I don't need to improve my appearance until late tomorrow, and I need to work wood again before then, get set for the week ahead, packing up the Circus Show for a trip on the road. Then a 3 week break, during which I need to do considerable patch-and-repair, repaint the main gallery. Tomorrow is the latest sunrise of the year. Things will resolve themselves. They have a way. As mere mortals we have no mandate to know why. A game, played above our heads. To a large extent, you are what you think. I look a little strange, but I feel ok, the fact that I dress oddly doesn't mean I'm crazy. What is crazy, anyway, compared to anything else? I balance a bare life at the edge of survival, I'm not even making a point, I melt snow to make coffee as a matter of course. Melted snow makes great coffee, why would I not? I use Red Maple ice-cubes to flavor a drink. You wouldn't want to be here. Read more...

Cleaning

I gave myself a vacuum cleaner, and I vacuum whenever I can. When the dust reaches terminal mass. If you live by wood, if you live by wood then a fine ash settles everywhere. I repeat myself. That last armload of wood turns into an adventure. I want to roll a smoke but my fingers don't work. This happens if you live alone and don't give a shit. Both upper arms are sore, Eric Clapton playing John Lee Hooker. That's something. I roll over in my sleep. If that then this. No one should live this way. I'm wearing knit gloves as I speak. My outfit is a joke. I look like a nut-case, but I'm fine, beneath the disguise. Ani DiFranco. I hurt, but because I hurt I am alive. Hold that thought. Hey Joe. John Lee Hooker, "Black Snake", then Ray, I guess. Doctor John. It's all over now. Cold. Didn't get above 15 degrees today and colder tonight. I spent a few hours outdoors, came in made another pot of grits with acorn meal. Cheese grits, with chilies, is fast becoming a favorite food. Out the window snowbirds attack the sumac heads. One patch of blue opens in the overcast, sunlight on falling flakes is prismatic. One last walk. The word barren comes to mind. Harsh, stark, and barren. Drifting snow shows graves clearly, I count 19, but don't trust that, my count is always different. The next hollow over, the one I think of as Church House Hollow (because there used to be a church there, something fundamental, with no mediation between the believer and God), is almost completely obscured. I sit on my foam pad, on a stump, with my gloved hands tucked under my armpits, and consider the frozen world. Even wearing insulated Red Wings, my feet are frozen, my nose is dripping a clear liquid that freezes on my bibs, my ears are cold even under Linda's hat. Realize I need to get home. Inside, it might be 60 degrees, but probably not, I strip off a few layers, warm my hands over the stove until I can roll a smoke, retreat to the sofa with a blanket and read a few chapters of "Suttree", holding the book against my knees with a gloved hand. A bare existence. Chicken broth, with a slug of whiskey. I open a can of pork and beans, heat them on a corner of the stove, eat a small can of sliced pears while the beans heat; again, I don't use a plate, eating right from the cans, like a character in fiction. Someone's eccentric uncle. I don't correspond even to myself. The wages of independence. If I die before I wake, my soul to take. I make some biscuits because I want a vehicle for butter and jam; they're good, but not as good as my mother's. Something to do with working the dough that I don't understand, the intricacies of pastry. I understand the theory, but my hands don't get it. I make 5 lumpy biscuits, and while they're baking, I make a sausage gravy; 2 biscuits with gravy, then 2 with butter and jam, the can of beans. I can't think beyond that. I'll go to bed early and get up early and start all over again, I don't know any other way. Take the hand you're dealt. Something like a Miles Davis tune, where you just bleat once in a while. I love Miles, don't take me wrong. A bleat is often the only response. I notice I grunt more often, as I get older, I don't know what else to say. The wind is a whisper in the trees. Time invents itself. Read more...

Frigid Beauty

So lovely, cold, but no wind. I work outside for hours, with various hats, depending on how much heat I need to lose. Finally take my 'SIMPLE' cap out to the shed so that I can easily switch on and off with a watch cap to keep my ears from freezing. I hate to cover my ears, because I can't hear. Pileated woodpeckers all day, two or three of them working the neighborhood. Little snow birds are out and enjoying the day, if their song be measure, as much as I enjoy mine. A walk-about, out to the graveyard, forlorn, on a day like this. Back home I make a quick dozen cuts with the chainsaw, doubles all, gives me 24 rounds to split later, put the chainsaw away, noisy bastard. Split a bit more, but both arms are cramping just a bit. Bring a few more doubles to the shed, broom off the snow, put away the tools. Coffee, a serious early dinner of meatloaf on a bed of mashed potatoes, with mustard greens, tinned, from a small producer of Southern Food in Columbus. I meant to make biscuits, but I forgot; a heel of sliced Multi-Grain, serves as trencher. I stay suited-up, because I might want to go back out later. Comfortable in myself, a little dirty, a little sore, needing a shave, ready for a smoke and a drink. Need to get another armload of wood, for in the morning, but that can wait. I'll wear crampons for that last trip and be very careful, the back porch is a sheet of welded ice. Need to get a bag of road-salt. Should be able to drive in one day next week, cold enough and the snow is dry. The augury of things. The face that might appear in a split of poplar, the smell of piss when you split Black Oak, a flash of red in your peripheral vision, the way you pronounce Louisville, or New Orleans. My resolution is merely to survive, I have no expectation; I'd like to get some things done, but I probably won't. I'm like that rag-picker in "Suttree", living under the bridge, starting fires with packing crates, eating road-kill, and eventually freezing to death. A certain legacy. You die, someone finds you, they bury a body. What does existing mean, exactly? Not-dead? Listen, I put on crampoms, and go get an arm load of wood. Reality is such a problem. Could we just see into the future? Read more...

Serious Weather

Half-a-day at the museum and I manage to be late for that. More snow, then above freezing for the last time in the coming week. Mackletree is a sea of slush, takes me 30 minutes to go 5 miles, but I need some supplies and I might not get to town for a few days. Back-up whiskey, back-up tobacco, makings for a cream of squash soup, cream. When I get home the driveway is a mess, crampons and a heavy pack. The freeze-thaw slog. It'll be hard again tomorrow. The lake should freeze this weekend, highs in the low 20's, lows in the 10's. It was above freezing for several hours today, and there was a major occurrence of what I think of snow-fog. Evaporation, to a limited extent, the air being so saturated that the new vapor only gets 20 feet in the air before it falls back as drops. But it's a dense fog. Lovely, the way it hangs in the hollows and softens all the edges. The walk down this morning was treacherous, the layer of snow was separating from the frozen driveway, every step was an adventure. Truck covered in wet snow. The remaining ducks, and they live here year around, have taken up residency in the Park Shelter. I always stop at the lake, to re-pack my backpack, in winter, because when I park at the bottom of the hill, I want to hit the ground running. Get home. I have no stronger, what? intelligence, response, than that. Of course the power went out. No back-up heat, crank the stove, layer on clothing, move over to the island, light the oil lamps, a few festive candles, rereading "Suttree". One of my all time favorite books. Stoked the stove one last time, crawled into bed, long underwear, socks, and a wonderfully soft merino wool sweater Steph sent, along with several others, in her campaign to keep me from freezing to death. Out of bed at dawn to start another fire, cup of coffee, suit up, and outside to split kindling while the house warms. Brisk 15 degrees. New Year. A round of pine, maybe 20 inches in diameter, I reduce to small stuff for starting quick fires. I don't burn any pine, usually, but it does seem a good solution for starting fires for the next frigid week. Back inside for another coffee and cheese grits with acorn meal. Power's on. I'll send this and start another later. Read more...