What's Said

I don't know what to make of me, I used to pride myself on being just beyond understanding, and now I want to be understood, I ask my readers to take a leap, they do, without a moment's hesitation and I'm the one that's perplexed. Listen, I was driving home today, and I was thrilled that I hadn't seen three crows, then, just before I reached the end of Mackletree, there they were, feeding on the scraps from KFC. I slammed the truck in gear, got out, yelled at them, picked up the trash. Exactly who is being used here? It's like an insider joke and I'm the goat. You wake up from surgery and they've taken out the wrong thing. -Excuse me, gall bladder maybe?- Not easy to laugh with a hernia, but I manage, nonetheless:

An Ace Bandage
and you, in the wilderness,
is enough.
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Triac Failure

Don't know what it is, but according to the manual "Triac failure is minimized with toroidal devices." Good, always hate it when my triac fails. D, of course, does not read the manual and somehow gets the dimmers and controls working, but even he will tell you he doesn't know exactly what he did. The second dimmer pack had three blown fuses, easy enough. While he replaces those (hard to get to) I reread a section on Activating Chase Effects but it doesn't seem germane. Computer works great with a two pound block of ice behind the rear. After lunch we are finally told that we've been given an 'as new' baby grand piano, everyone else has known about this for months; it'll have to live in the back hall and be moved about for various events, which means we need a piano dolly, more specifically called an Adjustable Grand Piano Mobileer (with locking wheels) and a bomb proof cover. Big rain last night and I was able to replenish my water supply but the driveway was a slippery mess this morning, a barely under control free-fall, and more trash on Mackletree. I need a bath but just go out on the deck and pour a gallon of water over my head, towel off, call it good enough, eat a can of tuna and some cheese, a hunk of bread, call it good enough, get a drink and settle at the keyboard. The Impossibly Cute Park Ranger showed up at the museum just before closing, a function on the Esplanade, 50 Zebco rods and reels for kids, a fishing adventure on the old Ohio; she brushes against me and I ask her over for dinner. If I understand this correctly, we have a date. D was standing there, he says that is the case. A perfect chance to cook a slab of ribs for pregnant Zoe and not eat dinner alone, this is good, but everyone is related, cousins and nieces, and I don't want a family, I think, but maybe I need a family, maybe we all do. That's not quite right, I already have a family here, the extended clan, and I wonder if that relationship would be endangered by a more intimate connection. I think about this shit, you know? When I first met Jenny, the very first time, ten years ago, she was skipping down the path, from Brian and Dawn's, down to Ronnie's house, and she looked back over her shoulder, I was filled with lust, that dancer's body, the grace, come on, what male wouldn't? Filed it as fantasy. Now I might be alone with her. I wonder what I'll say. Probably something inappropriate. I have a history. Three crows, never mind.
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Not Off

D out on emergency childcare, the Deputy on vacation, Pegi at the Cirque, skeleton crew. I reread the manuals on the electronics and hook things up, everything step by step and correct, but when I plug a stagelight into the system it is not off, as it should be, with the dimmer pre-set down, but on, and I can't get it off except by unplugging the damned thing. I do the entire programming sequence three times. Manage to waste half a day, keeping a light on even when I hit Black Out. Tomorrow I intend to mop and clean bathrooms, something I understand. Fuck a bunch of high-tech. Dogs back again, a feral pack, mix-breeds, but still I don't want to just keep shooting them so probably get a pellet gun, start pissing around my perimeter, try to establish a territory. Shot an ugly little black one last night, snarling at me, mouth foaming; shot it in the ear, dragged it down the logging road, downwind, and into the brush, -Food for worms, dear Percy-. Nice rattlesnake this morning, on the other side of the driveway puddles, 34 inches, 5 rattles, very dark, thick bodied, a female. Trapped her with a stick and got my foot behind her head, stretched her out, lovely thing but they do scare me, re-trapped her and stepped away, stamped my feet, amazing how they move so quickly away from vibration, no crows (quid pro crow, Sara still laughs at that) but some red-neck asshole has thrown his garbage out on Mackletree. You have to realize this particular section of Mackletree, through the State Forest, almost completely canopied, is as drop-dead beautiful as any section of the Natchez Trace, and for someone to stop (they had to of, we're not talking a Wendy's bag here, Taco Bell) and dump several bags of garbage. I keep trash bags in the truck, and latex gloves, pick most of it up on the way home, I'll finish tomorrow, but I have to get home because some other, or maybe the same, red-neck bastards have smashed my mail-box with a baseball bat. I feel violated, but have to measure my response: I don't want a war, there's no way I could win. I think about casting a mail-box in concrete, or, this is a fairly common problem, smashed mail-boxes, buying one of those steel ones, with a life-time guarantee, and setting it in concrete. If it's a drive-by bash, as I think it is, that would really sting, a broken-bat dribbler down the third base line. I don't think I'm hated, locally, I'm not sure they know I'm here; wait, yes, of course they do know. Not a problem, I often have to rethink, not a problem, one thing I know is that I'm not slow, usually.

Tom

-Catching up is hard to do- doo-opp, a down beat, let's get those guys back. Cage in Portsmouth? I'm dreaming. One of them is a Classics scholar and we talk about translations. He couldn't believe I'd done "Antigone" here, -Goddamn- he said, we don't get "Antigone" in Cincy. -Yep- I said, -we're full of surprises-.
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Easier

Makes it so much easier, to just say what you mean. I'm fully sympathetic, when it comes to saying what you mean. I don't lie well. I'd rather not make something up. But, if reality doesn't provide what I need, I'm not above making it up. You can't trust me. I'll grope in the dark. I won't remember, but I will grope. Once, in Florida, I must have been 15, Dad and I went fishing, Salt Creek up the St. John's, the flats where the river opened into big water, a place we couldn't often fish because it was exposed to any weather, wide open, but a calm day, we were fishing shiners for large-mouth bass at the edge of the lily-pads. An attentive kind of fishing, where you watched a moving bobber for sudden jerks, mine suddenly dipped and moved away, Dad yelled, but I was on the case, waited until the float went down the second time, set the hook, largest bass I ever caught, 8 pounds 6 ounces, I played him well. I almost never lied at home, I could tell my parents anything, ask them anything, we moved around so often (Navy Brat) that I was never part of a group, so didn't have a peer group to lie to, mostly, I read. Still do. Good day at the museum, finally sought out Leo, Tech Director at the college, seems the lighting equipment Pegi had at the Cirque is just fine, hook this to this, that to that, run a certain size wire, various mounting pointers; then D was able to find and download the manuals for both the electronic components. On a roll. The AC guys were back, to repair one of the two big roof-top AC units, thank god, things were heating up in Dodge City. I read both manuals, because I'll read anything, and because I left theater before the electronic revolution. I was still writing on a monster manual Underwood, horrible machine to learn on because it was so heavy and could take should a beating, I developed a two-finger hammering technique that destroys mere keyboards. Never could unlearn the technique, either, as if I'd learned to think through hammered digits. No nappe at the spillway, families quietly fishing: aha, I think, just two crows at the sheltered tables, but there's the third, chasing a donut hole down the slope, into the edge of the lake. Too hot to cook, and I know I'll skip dinner, so I stop at the Dairy Bar and get a footer, stuffed jalapenos; bought a bunch (10) of the little cans of baked beans on sale recently, another habit of families that fish, is that they eat many things out of those small cans, perfect boat food, and always at room temperature, so, with the footer and peppers, a cold can of beans. A picnic, I fish in my mind. Eating Vienna Sausages, Beanie Weanies, smoked oysters, sardines, liver sausage, yellow cheese and saltine crackers, drinking Busch beer in returnable bottles. That last couple of years, fishing with Dad in north Florida, I was close to becoming a river rat, but fell into theater, such is how, now I'm a river rat again, go figure. The driveway is eroded to loose rock and the verges are infringing. The finish on my truck is beat to shit by blackberry canes, the driveway has become a secret: if you didn't know it was there you wouldn't know it was there, a close dense canopy. If I ever drank anyplace else, and tried to drive home (I don't) I'd never find my house, I carry two flashlights and a large plastic bag in my soft army back-pack, a few other things, an extra pen, a dry notebook, a Phillip's bit for the drill, several of those strange nuts that secure down the plastic bolts for a toilet seat. God help me, I save those. I have a peach-basket filled. AND my current and forever passion is to compost ALL OF MY SHIT, which I do, AND collect the nuts that anchor toilet seats. Suspect. I wouldn't trust me, if I were you, I'd vote me off the island. I have to go out and shoot another dog, they're running the wildlife off, I hate killing anything, but I have to, I'm writing a book about a fox.
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Pounding Nails

Actually, I'm designated sawyer and don't pound that many nails, but B and Bear do, because the nail-gun is on the fritz. Because the lumber is so bad we use many small pieces between studs (blocking) in order to keep the door openings true. We get all the interior framing done, great room, bedroom, bath, closet, and as the ceiling is vaulted (scissor trusses) we add some ceiling joists in the closet creating a storage loft. I pace Bear on the beer consumption, drinking one to his two, Natural Light, I just sweat them off, a bottled water between, still don't pee until I get home, sweating enough to saturate my clothes. The two-bucket-on-the-deck shower, tepid water, feels great, a couple of Advil for those muscle groups I haven't used in a while; can of tuna, cheese and olives, hunk of bread dinner. Read Chuck Palahniuk's new book "Snuff", early this morning, finishing at dinner, a slight thing, a conceit really, but raunchy and funny. OK, Kim sent the second line:

There once was a doctor from Nantucket
who brought home brains in a bucket,

Brandy, Skip, Steven, Jana, surely we can wrap this up in a tidy fashion; suck it, fuck it, come to mind, also truck it, we need the set-up lines (bb) and then a closer. Cool enough to turn off the fan, the noise sometimes drives me crazy, I have to listen to music or wear ear-plugs, and for some time now, I'd rather just listen to the natural world. That's it, something I meant to mention, going to the concert, Saturday night, I was listening to a soundscape created by someone else, that I had to pay attention to. I don't do that so much any more, listen to music, though, times in my life, there was always something playing, blues, loose jazz, or the Grateful Dead, but now I listen to the wind in the trees, the frogs, those fucking crows, a pileated woodpecker hunting for grubs, that peculiar sound a fish makes, slurping a bug. Bear would say -Bridwell, you mother-fucker, you're losing your senses- but actually I'm gaining. I see progress here, moving toward the less artificial. God, I just had this fugal moment that went on and on, where I drifted off, thinking about music, visual arts, the written word, installation, how art ties us together. You're not me, I'm not even sure I'm me, yet, we can connect, we can take things out of context, in fact, need to, because, otherwise, nothing makes sense, and construct an order. Where we want to be. Make believe.
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Nothing, The Same

I can't believe how much I expose myself, everyone knows what I'm doing, I don't have any secrets anymore because I put it all out on the line. You might imagine that there is something reserved, held back, but there isn't. Sure I forget things, often never get to the point, and there seem to be some subjects that I never talk about (though when I think of one, I usually talk about it, at least skirt the edge) mostly in areas I feel strongly about but in a negative way. I don't like to complain unless I can be sarcastic or funny. There is, generally, too much complaining, now I'll complain about that. I can't stand people complaining about their job: quit it, for god's sake, get another job, and if you can't get another job, quit complaining about this job. Drives me crazy, I have to put on a prolate spheriod helmet and beat my head against a wall. Did I mention, I don't like idiots? B called and wants me to help with the inside framing at Zoe & Josh's place. Don't know if Bear will be there, I'm going in as a consulting framer, no intent to argue a single point, merely offer opinion and pound nails, that hammer and nail thing, Hamm and Clov; and, of course, there will be conversation with B and Josh, I might see the hugely pregnant Zoe, someone will feed me lunch, we'll probably drink a beer at quitting time, talk about Emily's grave, or Grave's terrific memoir of the First World War "Goodbye To All That", or Gulley Jimson, or nailing baseboard. We'll probably talk about food, maybe compare a recipe (both of us don't use recipes) in a very oblique way, B might say, for instance, when I might have asked him a question about how much chili powder to use when dredging fish fillets for tacos, -well, Tom, I guess I'd have to say, I fully expect to be digging chili powder out of ears with a Q-tip the next day- which I convert to ounces and a cloud of a certain density. And here's the kicker, working at Z&J's place with B, I'm understood and respected for what I am, whatever that is, accepted. I don't have to apologize for who I am. That wasn't the point here, what was the point? not apologizing but not putting yourself in that position, not going out: then you don't have to apologize. But I'll go out for this Richard's clan, because I like them, they engage me, I'm like an itinerant preacher with limited job skills and a guilty past, any chance to mix with the party. I have no social life and no skills. I'm not complaining, but ... . I feel I've been dealt a bad set of cards. What is the experiment, exactly? Should I be docile and roll over? Tune in tomorrow.

Tom

Talk about skirting edges.
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Evening Away

Excellent trio, Percussion Group Cincinnati, at the museum, needed help unloading and setting up, then loading and putting away afterward. Stage hand. Also I had altered the air-conditioning system for the theater (one of the main gallery units is out, so things are heating up) and wanted to be there in case something blew up. AC guy was around, last week, ordering parts for the big unit and we picked his brain. Theater unit is really an outdoor compressor, but we don't have an outdoors and the roof is too far away, so the original installers had run torturous ductwork for the exhaust. Too restrictive, burns out the coil, but the thing is in the big, awful, basement storage room, and the guy says, as I had thought, just cut a big hole in the plenum and baffle the air up, away from the intake. Easy enough, but a really loud and ugly job, gloves, metal snips, sawzall, hearing protection, drill, to start a hole. Cut it on both sides and the top, then bend it out so that it makes its own baffle. Elegant solution. Works. The group played some interesting pieces, one by our local Barnhart, a couple of John Cage pieces (they're famous for their knowledge of Cage) and finished with Four Chilean Songs that they've adapted from those mountain pan pipes transposed to the Karimba. Barnhart and Amy came over, he'd been best man at a student wedding over at the college, for most of the second half. Nice conversation for the load-out. Briefly thought about going for a drink at the pub, blew it off, wanted to get home, get cozy on the ridge. Spent an hour in the gallery the Wrack Show will occupy, walking around slowly, looking at walls and ceilings, some hoops to jump through. I'm anxious to get started sand-blasting stumps. Our lives move us, you notice that? you get interested in one thing over another and suddenly you're fixated, down on your knees with a magnifying glass, and let the wild woods grow. No nappe at the spillway, but squalls coming in from the west, fireworks, and a low rumble of thunder. I get a drink and make some notes. I've never been more comfortable. Not answerable to anyone other than a few close friends that make no demands. It's an amazing freedom, to not compromise, approach it slowly, it means you'll be alone most of the time, consider how you'll deal with that, yourself alone. B left early, to get home to his squeeze, I saw that look in his eye. I nod, you know, your greater graces, what we think we know.
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Fugal State

That second posting, early this morning, what happened was I got up to pee and saw I'd left the computer on, went over to shut it down, but I'm so conditioned, when I sit in this chair (which needs retiring, I've worn it out), to write, that I went on automatic pilot, wrote, sent, went back to bed. Forgot I'd even done it until I noticed the sheet on top of the pile when I got up the second time. My hard copies don't print the title, so I write the title in a scrawl at the bottom of the page, knew I had written "Extrados", which should have been on top, but instead, there was "Funny Guy". Mackletree is so beautiful right now, peaking, and the verge mown; had to stop and pick up trash. Turkeys everywhere, must have seen 60 or 80 this week, nearly managed to clip a Jake with the truck. Thinking about feeding B's clan, maybe do a brisket in the smoker with a pork roast on the rack above, talked with my Dad, he thought twelve hours at 200 degrees, maybe do a trial-run and parcel it out to the museum staff. Hound Dog makes the best potato salad I've ever eaten (almost an egg salad with potatoes because he raises chickens) and maybe a cold cherry soup. Like to have Sara and Clay, certainly D and Carma, Bear, Daleena and the kids, the Deputy and Jamie, Jenny, looking at twenty people, probably, Josh could bring Zoe on a stretcher or we could wait until after the twins are born, better idea. Need to cook a slab of ribs for Zoe. She is so very pregnant. I could use some myself, with slaw and baked beans. Have to go in tomorrow, for a concert at the museum, maybe buy some things, cook some ribs on Sunday, boil and rejuvenate the sauce with fresh herb, 7 years old almost to the day, an incredibly complex taste sensation at this point. It's like a wall of taste, every niche filled, explodes in flavors and combinations you'd never imagine, mango and chili and tamarind, red wines and balsamic vinegars, Guinness, onion juice, garlic, lime, rose water, geranium, capers, various drippings, juices you don't want to know about, a sauce for the ages, I hope when I die someone will keep it alive. I'd like to think. Phrasal verbs: fuck off, fuck up, fuck over (my apologies, Herman and Portia, I just fall into triplets, it's like they're issued to me or something, give Bridwell the threes, it's a given). I never know where to put periods, that's why I run on, I'm looking, you know, but I never see. I'm probably a foil, or a red herring, or something, a shadow you could have ignored, the moon, moving around. It works. I feed my computer ice and I can write, yes, I was hoping for a compromise. If there was a tug-o-war, we'd be on the same side of the rope. I rest my case. Your honor.

Tom

There once was a doctor on Nantucket.
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Funny Guy

I'm a funny guy, if you cut through the bullshit, what's left is a kind of humor, a sardonic grimace, one last slip on the banana skin. Like Groucho said. Tennis is just a game. I don't trust words, I love them, but I don't trust them. I always think you imagine something I don't mean. I want you close but I'm a private person, maybe the slightest bit strange, smell strongly from recent physical exertion (hacking my way through blackberry and bull-vine to get to my door) but it is the odor of honest labor, not a purchased scent, honest in that regard, like smoke after a fire, and I don't really know what you think of me. Maybe trust is an issue, what I would allow. I is an issue, what we could do with him. I'd like to stuff him in a box and put him out with the trash, but where would I be then. On a different dung-heap. Consider where the Scioto flows into the Ohio. I've considered this particular confluence on many occasions, we might say I know it well, still, I know almost nothing about it. Disheartening. On the other hand. Go away, go away, Dixie Land. It's good to get to the bottom of things. B said something, I don't remember, I could see he was annoyed, I had driven back roads for what seemed like hours, Bear wanted to hire me to talk with him, this is probably a dream, one of us will wake up and fly away, that butterfly. Saw another black squirrel today. Think about that. I need to eat more, but I'm tired of chewing. Nothing is shocking. I don't want to see them, but I swear to god, driving in tonight, the county road crew has mowed the verge of Mackletree and it is beautiful, canopied, filtered light, post-card:

I'm ashamed to admit
how much they mean
to me, three crows
on the road.

Tom

An inverse reverse Idaho. My gift to you. A matter of course. Tacking the wind. -Is it blowing, Bob?-
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Extrados

Yes, of course, what was I thinking, duh, outside curve of an arch would be extrados. A lot of jumps to hoop through. Nappe pronounced 'nap', is the sheet of water going over a spillway or dam. Knew there was a word, Latin, mappe, meaning napkin, also Old French word for tablecloth. A great word to finally have, stumbled across it looking up something else, a little gift from the dictionary gods. If it wasn't for George Bernard Shaw Nietzsche's Ubermensh could have been "Beyondman", dealing a death blow to the first super-hero. No scones at the bakery this morning and D and I pitched a fit. Twice this week. We started by repeating the phrase in every possible way, -no scones? no scones! NO SCONES- escalating in volume; then into a routine, totally off the wall, about being addicted to the damned things because of the opium they mix in the batter, first they get us addicted, then withhold the fuckers so they can laugh at our withdrawal symptoms, how cruel they were, how they should be eaten by bull sharks, how the dust from a thousand camels crossing the Gobi should clog all their pores. We were on a roll, and the owner was loving it, as she sliced and slathered cream cheese on bagels for us. A couple of the help thought we were crazy and a bit threatening. -Four lefts to go straight and stay on Gay, you can't miss it- my directions to a confused motorist,- or, I say -two rights and it'll be straight ahead, but the lefts are safer, no wait, do the two rights because you can't make one of the lefts- hope I helped the guy. Supernatant means floating on the surface, seems like too much word, but it might prove useful. Thinking about some printed matter for the Wrack show, not labels, but hand-outs, offprints: "Do Bowling Balls Float" article, a list of specific gravities, a flow-chart for the Scioto / Ohio confluence, the piece about Prolate Spheroids: a little booklet you get at the end kind of thing. I like this idea, museum logo, maybe a list and description of upcoming shows, maybe a few of these pages, where I talk about the show, where the idea came from, how everyone climbed on board. Sara wants to run the show extra long so maybe we close with Glenn's film of us making the show. Maybe we should dip the booklets in the Ohio and then dry them out, they'd be crinkled and the ink would run, maybe just the cover, like that lovely moldy cover B did for the Skip Fox book. When does Meg Oliver get up? I only see her at 3 or 4 in the morning when I get up to check the weather on TV, not that often, because I mostly don't care, you know, bring on whatever, nothing I can do other than take my truck to the bottom of the hill, but there are times that is critical information, if getting to work is REALLY important, like changing over shows, where there isn't the option. The Janitor Escape Clause overrides any other rule or regulation: If getting to work is dangerous, or is perceived as dangerous, the janitor may stay home and read. It's in the contract, read the small print. All my friends are assuming false names, I wonder if they're distancing themselves. Was that scene in the coffee-shop too much? The Cole Porter song with the bible salesman? I can't remember what I had decided.
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Intrados

Sitting in the theater at the museum, going over, in my mind, the components (the scenery) of the set for the kids' play the Brit is directing. Needs a fence gate, covered in ivy, and I'm imagining how to build it, an arch would be nice, like part of a trellis, I think about several different methods of construction. Need a smoke to think, D is off judging County Fair art and Sara is at the beach, so I'm standing outside alone, thinking about arches. Which leads to thinking about Arches, the grand National Park outside Moab, Utah, where there are some 154 natural sandstone arches, requiring millions of years of wind and the old freeze-thaw cycle; then thinking about Natural Bridges Park, how if a stone arch spans water it is called a bridge; then a mattress truck pulls up next door at the furniture store, and painted on the side is a beautiful woman in a slinky nightgown lying on a bed, her lower back is bare, and it's a kind of inverted arch. The word 'intrados' pops out of my mouth... the inner curve of an arch... (implies that the outer curve has a different name, but I don't remember that) and I remember hearing that word first from my Scenery Mentor, Herbert Senn, on Cape Cod, when I was 18, then years later, in Moab, drinking with a Park Ranger at a brew pup, watching Jordan and the Bulls crush the Jazz (Jordan had the flu, fired the game-winning shot, with his tongue hanging out, falling away). I'd always use the word when building an arch and I've probably built more than my share of them, with various people, in various states, certainly two dozen, over the years, and whomever it was I was building with at the time would look at me strangely. I'd usually just shrug and apologize but sometimes I'd stop working and do five minutes on The Arch In History, those Romans, man, concrete and keystones. Waiting for the AC guy, D gets back from judging 4-H art, a late lunch at the pub, lovely Holly is our waitress, and during our meal, at the bar, she elbows in next to me, to reach across and refill a coke without having to walk around. She's like 8 inches away, bare shouldered, and I turn my head to smell her neck, I can't not, it's there, like Hillary said about Everest; despite the fact that I am careful to be discreet, with that knowledge beforehand and not giving a shit, that three people see clearly what I'm doing, Holly, D, and Jim, the owner (or at least the money), there is no way that I wouldn't take advantage of that particular situation. A slightly musky sweat over salt marsh over a floral soap. Some people just smell good, their cross to bear. She said she wasn't wearing anything, just BO, and I'm thinking we should bottle this. She smelled great. Fucking turkeys, on the way home, wild turkeys and I've seen so many of them this week, 60 or 50, everywhere; I could have taken one with the truck and wondered, afterward, why I hadn't. Stupid three pound chicks, perfect fryers, haven't leaned to avoid vehicles, but I stop and let them cross the road, just to watch their awkward walk. Penguin time in the city. Darwin said something about finches. What about those lizards that eat seaweed? I've captured one of the salamanders that prey on the frogs, I'll watch him for a few days and set him free, I don't know what's going on, really, I merely watch, probably a crime in most states.
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Missing Piece

Holding to the triplets, again, no one at the lake, stop for a smoke and watch a large group (two 3's) of crows cleaning the shelter. Excellent technique. And a third triplet: I find a single puzzle piece, my third in a year, the famous "missing piece" that you hear about so often, on a picnic table. Someone is going to be pissed. I need to get a bunch of uniform frames, cheap is fine, though D and I could probably make 20 in a day, from walnut or cherry, that would be stunning; start buying used puzzles at Good Will and yard sales, take a nice single piece out of each and frame it. I'm not usually a minimalist but I like this. Normal janitor duties following a Saturday event and there is stuff for the auction that needs taken to the basement and a dozen or so rolled off-cuts of carpet that need taken to the third floor, I docent a group of students through the main gallery, then, late afternoon, walk a couple through, that decide the museum is the perfect place for their wedding reception, which it is, probably, the best venue in town. Bet I walked 20 miles today, leg muscles are almost cramped (that pre-cramp tingle that actually allows you enough time to stretch your leg or flex your toes and avoid seizing) and my feet hurt. Fortunately I foresaw how I would feel when I got home so I stopped at the Dairy Bar and got a footer (sauce, mustard and cheese) and some jalapeno poppers, god, I love those fuckers, an almost dangerous food: for one, dealing with the whole pepper family, you never know how hot one is going to be, two, the cheese with which they are stuffed is molten, and three, they are batter dipped and deep-fried. If my purse were deep enough, I'd stop every day and get an order of these, just for the thrill, not knowing what you'd get, how rare is that, in a time of absolute codification? Not to draw to fine a line, but as a codicil to my rule about getting footers from really large people (because they prepare each one as if for themselves) as opposed to an anorexic teenager who didn't add enough of anything (and you had to get two), but you should eat these at least once a week. They'll make you think. The best I ever had were at a state line where a writer friend was meeting me because she was wanted across the line. I drink free beer anywhere, I'm not particular, but I was aware of the surroundings, there were stuffed animals and old-fashioned juke-boxes, I fed quarters and played the Allman Brothers, "Whipping Post", really, I'm a creature of habit.

Tom

You said what? I have to pay attention, what did you mean by that? I wish I understood this better, far as I can see there is more weather, a storm that blows me off of my foundation, breaks my nose against a wall, I'm bleeding, I ask you, ever polite, what did you mean?
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Triune

I don't know why things fall in threes. Maybe it's just me, an imagined pattern, something I read when I was young and impressionable. Maybe it's just a rhythm, a beat, that I pick out of background noise. Seems real. Could be a Whip-poor-will or a Rufus-sided towhee, those fucking crows. If I were superstitious I could play the alien abduction card, the previous life gambit, the lost tribe bullshit, but I'm rooted in a world where a bad-hair-day fox takes an apple from the compost pile, glances my way, and trots off into the bush, a mocking bird sings badly, clouds occlude the moon. Not a promising scenario but something I could live with: late at night, I just need to know what are the parameters. I can adjust to almost anything if I can see the playing-field, understand the basic rules. Lean into the curves.
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Perceived Slight

What I go through. You wouldn't believe. Just as I set down to write it gets several stages darker, big winds, the leaves turn inside out, thunder, I start writing anyway, fuck it, I've lost more than a paragraph before, I can deal with it. I make some notes, actually write longhand, by candle, because I had thought far enough ahead to get supplies available. I'd written some replies earlier, I assume they're in storage, beyond this lightening bolt, saved somewhere. Coming a blow. Wait for the first drops to spatter before you close any windows, consider ventilation, changing stale house air for a batch of ozone. Hadn't worked with B's nephew, Bear, in a few years and it was good to be around his profane self. He drinks beer like it was water, is as strong as an ox, curses like a sailor. Bam, lightening close, catches me looking NW and blinds me for a minute. Fast moving cell, 30 mph, with winds to 60 mph, roaring over the ridges. I feel exposed, shit, I am exposed, the house shudders. A choice I made. Hate writing longhand, so laborious and you still have to transcribe. So, eight years ago Bear was helping me on my house, lending brute force when necessary, and I had bought a whole leg of lamb, for a dinner party. B likes lamb as much as I do, and his brother, too, so they were coming with significant others and we were grilling the rubbed leg slow, off the heat, then crisping the outside over high heat. I was relatively new to The Creek, not intending a family affair, but Bear's sister (the impossibly cute park ranger) was at her father's house and sure, she should come too, with current lover. Bear takes such offense that I don't ask him and his family that his anger is palpable, he calls during dinner, to ream me out. The perceived slight. The dynamic moment that charged and changed a relationship. I didn't ask them because I didn't have enough plates, food, and chairs. After eight years, he's mellowed somewhat, though still calls me by just my last name, as in -Bridwell, you mother-fucker, what's going on?- Back then I felt he was always on the edge of violence, he intimidated by his very presence, but since, he's survived a head-on car crash that would have killed anyone else, and then last year, you may have read about it, a Creek Guy shot a kid, at distance, through a pick-up truck, with a high-powered rifle, twice, for stealing a bale of hay (to use as a target base, honing his bow-hunting skills) and the kid bled out in Bear's arms, waiting for a misdirected 911 response, and he had known the shooter most of his life. Maybe we're most changed by events over which we have no control. Into town today to do the laundry and get a few things, stopped at B and Sarah's place on the way home (it is right on the way) to see if they had finished the roof, have a beer, and he had picked up the same vibes I had, me working with Bear again, the perceived slight. Deep background. This is like a one-page novel (a nod to Mr. McCord) because to really tell the story it would be, what, like a 100 pages, these people, this place, so interesting. Think of me as Jack Webb or Nick Adams, just the facts. Oh, wait, they're both fiction. Reality is like molasses, you get bogged down in it, and sometimes that's a good thing, you can't pay enough attention to detail. I've solved the computer problem, the over-heating-mid-summer thing, after that talk with B, because heat rises and cold sinks, and if I place a saucer on top of the black Dell and put a frozen 2 pound yogurt container of ice on the saucer it seems I can cool my mainframe. Excellent, I'm already paying for the fridge and there's no added incurred cost, hidden expenses. Coming home, there is no one at the lake, odd for this time of year, and I can see a book on the picnic table down near the water, I'm curious enough to stop, walk down and check the title, it's one of those self-help things for lost Christians, I throw it in the trash and feed the ducks bread I salvaged from the dumpster behind Kroger. God, I feel good, I'm still alive, bless the little children, I'm sure they contribute something, nothing holds a candle to the way I feel about you. An owl, there is hooting in the distance, any country road, you stop to neck, there they are:

Three crows...
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