At Odds

The quality of light is changing. More slant. The tree canopy over Mackletree has almost fully recovered from the huge fire a few years ago and the patterns between pools of brightness and deep shadow are so stark it's like driving through a kaleidoscope, almost blinding at times. I took a nap before last night's writing session and had the most vivid dream in months. There was an argument between two crows, which I understood perfectly, about String Theory and the number of universes; then a beach scene, probably Ireland (she was sturdily built and red-headed) where a woman in white was calmly standing, about a foot off the ground, watching seagulls work the wake of a fishing boat. I could see her clearly, but she couldn't see or hear me; and, finally, a painting, in an art gallery, a still life, some persimmons and a pear, which, I thought, in the dream, was very good. I don't usually remember my dreams, but this summer-altered schedule means Black Dell is on at night, and it was easy to just go over and make some notes as soon as I awoke. I don't even note my dreams or usually even think about them. I'm of that random-neurons-firing school, and don't subscribe to divination. Taken a certain amount of shit for that, over the years, everyone so desperate to believe, but I never felt I could waste Sunday by being religious, or agree that my future might be displayed in chicken guts or a cut of the cards. You can read anything into anything. Saw my first drone, maybe it wasn't a drone, there's a remote flying club, down in the bottom where the Scioto meets the Ohio, the skies are open and they can do their thing. But that would be a drone, right? A remotely controlled aircraft. It seemed to be looking for something. I had a Big Brother moment, then went out to collect some Coprinus mushrooms. These go through their life cycle quickly but are wonderful when gathered at their peak. A nice thick soup that freezes well and makes a wonderful brown-butter gravy. I freeze it an ice-cube tray then bag them; two of which, with a pat of butter, on a fried egg, on toast, is a feast. They know me at the sweet corn stand, and I get six ears for a buck; cut the kernels off, then milk the cob with the back of a table knife. Two servings, one, a chowder with oysters, the other makes four fritters. Deep clover. Of course I'm getting older, and my body is failing, but I can deal with that, I just have to be more careful. Limit the number of times I have to hike in with a full pack. Make sure there's tobacco and whiskey, beans and a hunk of salt-pork. Cornbread, it goes without saying, with or without any additives. On the creek-bank, Mom would make an unleavened corn cake that was, more or less, perfect. If we were at home, soda and baking powder would make a cake; left over cake, with berries and a drizzle of molasses would be the perfect breakfast. Well into my teenage years I carried cornbread and pork rinds as trail food. Dried cranberries came much later. Now, I don't differentiate; nuts and dried fruit, elk fat, a pemmican for the ages. But it seems to me, if you went to that much trouble, you might understand we're tied into a dialog. As a reader, you have a certain responsibility. I don't know what that is. I have a mandate to supply text, 7.5 dollars a bushel. Wheat futures.