Muckin' about

I admit to a certain degree of lethargy. At least it appears that I'm lazy, lacking discipline in the 'shoulds' while readily seeking distraction (which makes me question my child-raising skills in as much as I used to say "75% of discipline is distraction," thereby avoiding the rod but twice, once for each, in their more formative years). But I digress.

This December had promised to be a record dry month. Having received a mere .10" of rain through the equinox when we should have closer to a full 8", I was not alone in the fret. The last two days have fixed that problem to the tune of at least 7 more inches and a few lingering showers until tomorrow morning. The bulk of it came last night and today, and as one might suspect, caused a couple issues, meaning that I would have to put aside my surfing and such.

The seasonal pond is over its bank on one side, spilling into the yard and drowning moles. The mounds are percolating and underground tunnels are now earthen hoses. Of course, the sub-surface rivulets are subject to erosion and are becoming little ditches, one of which is making its way across the driveway to the barns and mules pasturing. We'll get some 3/4 gravel tomorrow and fix it.

What pasture there is left, especially around the trough, feeding area and shelter, is badly puddled. Between the mud, ponding and trickles, there was need to dig some small trenches to facilitate drainage, which is what the mule owners and I did this afternoon.

But first, we needed to eyeball-survey the grade to plan out our course. To do that, one needs to get a little distance from the site, which was my self-appointed duty, so I stepped out of the paddock to a somewhat overgrown area between the fence and the barn and onto a board with a nail pointed north.

No worry, as it seems that I still have a little spring in my step, and even though my boots are no longer waterproof, I received only a small bruise. The digging proceeded unabated.

The effected area of the paddock is draining nicely. Tuesday, we'll dump and spread seven yards of hog fuel.

Oh, and the brand of those boots? Muck, of course. (Pictured are my new ones.)

Glimmer

Or glimpse. Not really certain, which after all makes sense. Light coming in is about all I can say at this point. Folks acting on my behalf is hope enough, and should something move forward, well then, dear friends, I shall speak of that which I did not jinx with early speculations. Not that I'm that superstitious. It's really more sabotage of my motivation and that "eggs in one basket" thing. I have several other applications that require my attention, some within the next week. Still, the word is out: I'm looking elsewhere, so now is the time to show me some love. (OK, glimmer.)

Raise your hand if you think the holidays are traumatic. I have an uncle in the hospital undergoing dialysis and heart surgery. Guess when he was admitted. Yep. The wife's good friend is a mess for more reasons than her main squeeze was rushed that same day and now has four new arteries feeding his heart. The phone.... the phone. Seems we missed a bullet ourselves on the same day when Thumper decided to remind me that I needed to sleep more than go to the young farmers' place and catch one helluva cold that cancelled our dinner plans tomorrow with other attendees. I slept and everything is pretty much back to the usual. Other than that, Santa was cool.

And now the New Year is upon us. I will be attending the annual New Year's Day poker gathering at our old home game host's house. Cash at 1300 hrs, eats at 1500 and then a tourney. If memory serves, I took the tourney down last time.

Otherwise, poker is poker. Play money O-8, albeit hilly at times, remains a walk in the park. The same for the 8 Game. Should events in paragraph one come to fruition, I may have the luxury of playing one of these games live someday.

Some day... But I shouldn't even be playing online right now. So much to do in the next week...

Wish me glimmer.

Same to you.

Soft touch

We're eating tomorrow. The turkey has defrosted and is back in the fridge. The sweet potato pie took longer to bake than I expected, but I think it's finally cooked through and is cooling. What else? Cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, dressing, gravy and peas. We'll be hitting the same feedbag for days and we're both fine with that.

Some of you are off to celebrate with family, others will knock on a neighbor's door, while an older couple are glad for the quiet and others content with solitude. I'm sure even nonbelievers get a bit in the groove of love and gratitude.

 I ask only one thing: Drop a fiver in the red bucket.

The best to you all.

Drawing non-conclusions

I could vent some more. I could.

The rainbow and shadow artist just landed another grant. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Clever girl.

I am aware of the gap in posts of late. Thing is, it's very hard to explain what it is that keeps me away, and that's because words pretty much fail me these days. It happens, and I may have mentioned in the past how it is that this happens, or rather, what takes its place when it does. Oh, I'm good for a snippet here and there, which I've also shared a while back, which is mostly as titles. Titles for drawings.

A couple of you have no doubt seen these elsewhere. And to be truthful, I have avoided putting them here because of that darn image recognition software that is available. Not that I don't want them seen; it's just that I still hold onto the silly notion that I want this space to be free of prying eyes. Of course, that's already a desire that has been compromised. I didn't make myself clear to some when I should have. But then again, the attention seems to have waned, so we're back to cozy. Therefore, I am inclined. For those of you who are already privy, I apologize for the duplication, except you now have the advantage of seeing several of them in one place. For those out of that outside loop, I kinda feel like I owe it to you.

It may be too much at once. Add to that Blogger has managed to upload them out of order and I am too lazy to make a second attempt. I would invite you to take some time with each one, click on it to enlarge so you can see the titles. Also, think about what I wrote above, that words fail me right now. After all, that's what these pieces are about, whether it is caused by existential confusion or the frustration in the 'wordlessness' that is Nature.

C'mon

Big news here in Hollow Fork: Another road-killed deer has been added to the compost.

Lord, sometimes it seems so fucking isolated here I want to scream. So, I go play free poker online.

That's only the half of it. Believe it or not, I'm pretty content with my old adage and it is more than enough.  Not the poker. Just here. With you folks. All, what? five of you. And just here, without you.

There is the wife. She has been doing the Christmas Spirit thing. Pretty remarkable performance by an agnostic Jew. She grooves on it. She is overcome by love and generosity. I sign the cards. Oh, I bought a few presents as well. Not Scrooge, mind you. After all, I cry at the end of Alister Sim's portrayal. And I am working on her presents, which I could tell you about, for she has no idea that this blog exists. (I'm sure she has her secrets too.)

A little background: Money is a bit tight (future tales, to be sure), so we have agreed to make each other presents this year. I wrote a poem. Nothing new there. I do it for every special occasion.  I'm also compiling some music for her. But again, we've been doing that for each other for years (more she than I). But besides those two things, I was having a hard time figuring what else my little mind could come up with. So, I googled.

A memory jar. Fill a jar with hand-written notes that recall shared experiences, thoughts about those times, etc. How perfect, right?!  A gallon jug for 50th anniversaries, or a pint jar for grandkids. You're welcome, although I can't take too much credit. The very Christian folks have a bunch of ideas as well, but a collection of one's favorite Bible verses just isn't appropriate in my case. Even though I do have some, no evangelical, I keep them to myself.

Yet, I look back to near the beginning of this post, and it did start out as a prayer, did it not? Yeah, I am. Don't tell anyone, OK? Tis the season, otherwise, I wouldn't be so fellowshippy.

And I also mess with the English language. Fa la la la la laaaaaaaa.

Where was I?

We have a wreath on the front door. Kinda seems appropriate.... with the dead deer and all.

Couple days

Let's see...

Turns out the young man who died in the motor home ran a pub tourney and they had a fundraiser tourney at the same pub Monday night. Didn't go. Should have, perhaps, but will make restitution.

Maybe a good thing after all, for no telling if I would have made it back home before the power went out up here in the hills. Just an hour or so, long enough to nap and be startled awake when all systems were go once again. So, there I was, wide awake until way too late.

I sleep with my phone on. Habit from earlier dictate in the thumper days. It rang early. The wife was outside and noticed the water trough iced over, which shouldn't be with the floating heater. There may have still been a little scotch in my system, but I threw on some clothes anyway. (My head hurts just to write this.)

Yep, no power in the one barn. Hmmm. Checked the other outbuilding and they were fine. Checked the breaker box, click-click and nothing. Hmmm. Follow the extension cords from the space heater for the pipes and the one out to the trough. The connection was laying on the ground and it looked like it was covered in mud. Nope. Fused and charred.

Things get testy. Thumper tells me to take a corner. Neither lasts long.

Phone calls. Lots of phone calls, mostly to the mule folks. Want an electrician to check the barn. After all, the breaker should have broke. Don't like it one bit. No returned call, so rerouted cords and waited for the mule's pappy to bring a new trough heater.

Thinking while waiting. Check the box one more time. Not breakers I'd seen before. Fiddled with them and noticed one didn't click through. Gave it an extra push and 'click'. One more click and we have power. Disaster averted. Pipes safe for now. A ton of hay now going up in smoke.

Knock on wood.

Bad Moon

I neglected to mention the weather last night convinced me that it was in my best interest to not venture the twenty miles or so to the monthly home game. Despite the grilled burgers that would await me no matter when I showed up, I thought about the level of stress to and from as I imagined deer and drunk drivers in the dense fog, and begged out.

Mike, the host of the game, is most gracious, as are his mother and lady friend who endure this men-only game. And those who have been with me for a while know the fun I often have at this game, regardless of winning or losing, so it just seemed fitting to bring a bottle of Mike's favorite booze (I don't know what the women drink, if at all). Again, if I had gone. Still, I had the bottle and it is not something I can bring myself to drink, so when I called to cancel, I asked if he would be around today so I could drop "a little something" off for him. He said he would.

Errands were to take me near his house, and I called as I approached. I got his voice mail and I informed it that said bottle would be left on his stoop.

Now, I mention all of this without any indication of the foul mood I was in while driving in the city, sent to search out something I was almost certain of not finding. So, even though all vehicles were accounted for in Mike's driveway, I thought better not to knock as I had no idea how long the game had gone last night, and I wasn't much interested in the ensuing small talk or pleasantries while my other goal remained elusive, so I did as I said I would.

It was not long before my cell rang.

"Did you leave a bag on my step?"

"Yes. I left a message for you and didn't know if you were home, asleep or what."

He did not thank me, which I found curious (see above). "Man, it's been a rough morning." He then proceeded to tell me about his girlfriend's son and that son's girlfriend dying in a motor home fire that morning. The fire was started at the doorway of the vehicle, which the police found suspicious, and though the couple apparently tried to escape through a window, they were unsuccessful.

I expressed my sympathies and hung up. I thought about how his girlfriend must feel. Then I thought about how my own mother feels so many years after my brother was killed.

And I'll leave it at that.

Why too? Okay, again.

Frosty and foggy full moon last night, a nice ring of a rainbow when I last looked, when the dog took her last piddle. I was aware a full eclipse was on its way some hours later, and remarked so back inside. "Last one until 2014." Not that I'll stay up or get up early to see it then, either.

One of my credit cards expires 12/14. Funny, but I don't think about the same thing when I purchase online: That the world as it is now won't much matter should there become an absence of hominids next year about this same time.

Oh, lonely moon.

It was warm under the blanket and comforter.

Today promises to be busy.

Tangle

So, according to a very reliable source, I have reason to bitch. It seems that there is some evidence of favoritism toward some artists, and those who make the determinations carefully chosen. Yes, I thought "slam dunk," but that doesn't mean someone more deserving was also displaced in the pursuit of developing a more perfect mutual admiration society. Same as it ever was, elsewhere as well.

And, as promised, I have set to work on the next proposal. However, it will take a few days to put this little episode behind me.

Besides, there are other things to be thankful for.

But I won't be calling this fine art.

Bitter

I shouldn't complain. It's no doubt colder elsewhere at lower latitudes. Yet, there is something about a fog when it's 29°F that seems colder than it is. At least that's what my bones tell me. Supposedly rain is on the way, and that means the fog will dissipate and milder temperatures will set in, which is more often the way things go around here this time of year. At least until Christmas, anyway, when all hell breaks loose. Usually. Trends always have a bit of unpredictability built in.

Nor do I think I should piss and moan about other breaks from the status quo of the day-to-day. In fact, in my case I think that would be a cause for celebration.

Not everything, for again, variance is to be expected. Am I right, poker players? Am I right? Show of hands...

No, not another poker post. Let's keep the exceptions to a minimum, shall we?

It was supposed to be a done deal, fait a compli, shoe in, sure thing, picture perfect proposal. I sent in the photos of fields. You know the ones. The grant award was a cool 3K, enough to print and frame a suite of these shots. Then, I could send images of the work around to various galleries and museums in the state and pitch for an exhibit. Now, I'm back to square one. I did read that another artist I know made the cut. She works with shadows, prismatic rainbows and colored paper on windows to make pretty. I am curious to see who else got the cash.

I'll tell you, it makes me want to write some scathing reviews. It also brings out other feelings about such an artist that are no so well-deserved.

Complaining is useless. So is asking myself the rhetorical question: "So, what else is new?" Another funding deadline looms and I have yet to begin the submission process; but for now, just for the rest of the time I am awake tonight, I am going to bolster myself against the chill with a hearty three fingers of scotch.

BB Action

The week of Thanksgiving found me in Southern California, sunny about 50% of the daylight hours, but warmer, so I'll take it. Besides eating meat at least twice a day (mum-in-law dictate), and seeing some art with a friend, the only other thing on the agenda was hitting Commerce Casino with the bro-in-law for some poker.

While NL Hold 'em is where I feel most comfortable, I thought I might want to give Omaha 8 a go. I've been playing that game about 99% of the time the past few months, averaging about 100 or so hands a day in Stars' free site. Granted, freerolling is nothing like playing for real money, but I have been trying to take the game seriously, paying attention to position, figuring odds to draw and not playing any four cards like 75% of the pack does. It's paying off, but again, the field is somewhat lacking and therefore some doubts lingered as to whether I was ready for live action where chips represented more than fairy dust.

I know a couple poker regulars who play O-8, our buddy Mojo being one of them, so I dropped him an email asking for pointers. It would appear that he is a cautious player, perhaps more so than I, but I planned to take his style as my own for this foray, and watch the tables for a bit before taking a seat. If each round of betting was going to get capped as my bro-in-law suggested it sometimes does, I would look elsewhere for a chair.

As it happened, there were only two table of O-8 and they were both 6/12, so, no thanks. I said as much in a response to an email that Mojo sent me this evening asking how I had done. You can thank him and his inquiry for an actual poker-related post.

I've thought about the game off and on over the last week or so. Although the win was nice, the room itself, aside from its monstrous size, left much to be desired. The Commerce spreads a horrible NLHE game. The lowest is 2/3 with a $100 buy-in. The $200 game is 3/5. They are designed for action and rake, and one has to expect to see or be involved in all-in hands. This might be why the older Armenian guy in seat 7 opened so large, anywhere from $20 to $40. I saw a flop with a pair of tens in the BB to his $20 bet and folded to his c-bet on a dry flop. When he bet $40, once again I was in the BB, I folded AKo with very little hesitation. I had yet to see his hole cards during any hand and couldn't see a reason to pull the trigger that time with a drawing hand with less than 2 to 1 to call.

About 50% of the hands were limped around. While this could have afforded me an opportunity to play a wider range, I stuck to basics except when it came to playing the Almighty Deuce-Four and the Spanish Inquisition. Perhaps I was bored, folding as much as I was on an action table, or just because I like Grump and have fond memories of playing the SI with BWOP one evening in Vegas. Sadly, 2-4 cost me a little money, yet I am happy to say that the SI paid handsomely, enough to get me up to about $150.

Of course, pocket Kings brought me back down to $75. I began to consider topping off my stack, as there were plenty of other players willing to call, call, call when someone had the best of it. For instance, the Ukrainian in seat 6 had plenty of gambool in him, and a hot head to-boot. Before I could dig out a crumpled $20, I was dealt pocket threes, again in the BB. The Ukrainian limped, as did a couple other players. I prayed for a set and received it. I led out and only the Uke called. He did so again on the turn. When the last card was dealt, the board was straightening to the middle and I slowed down but he flatted, saying, "You have Ace-ten maybe? Good hand." He showed KT. This set him to leading out for ten bucks for a while, which shut me down. Well played, sir. And after a bit, he had to rebuy, pissing and moaning the whole way. Then he decided to take a walk.

I waited — well, not really, just card dead and more pairs that led nowhere — for his return. In the meantime, another eastern European type settled into seat 8. And when Ukey returned, the fun began again. First it was my Aces UTG. I bet smallish, $8. Ukey called. I checked my set on the flop and flat-called his bet of $10. The turn threatened straights again and I check-raised his $20 with a jam, to which he immediately folded. If looks could kill... The very next hand, again the BB, I got in free with pocket deuces. A deuce on the flop, yummy. I led out for $10, Ukey called (of course) as did the new guy. The turn was a thing of beauty: the case two. Again, I led out, but kept it small at $15. Ukey called and the other guy went into the tank with about $60 behind. My only mistake was insta-calling his jam, but on the other hand, I would not want to be accused of slow-rolling without metal detectors at each entrance. Ukey folded.

I was now doubled up. Better, even, but not by much.

Time was running out. I knew my bro-in-law wanted to leave in a half hour. (I haven't even told you about the other easy money at the table that I could have had in another three hours. Or, I could have lost all of my buy-in in the same amount of time.) As bro-in-law had to rebuy in the 3/5 game, only to see his Queens go down in a blaze to two other players, both holding AK, when an Ace came on the river, we were out of there early.

I paid for the valet parking.

Taken

Deciding that I can afford anything I want, while not wanting for much, you understand, I opted for driving by the burn piles yesterday. Not much to see, really, as they have been bulldozing the ashes,  hoping, I suppose, we get some rain before strong winds, disregarding, of course, a gully-washer sure to come. Furthermore, I can't see seeding this time of year — not that it would take well to the dead growing medium. Anyway, so dissuaded, or maybe uninspired, I continued on into town to run errands.

This was rather late in the day. Late this time of year, as 1500hrs is nearing sunset at this latitude. (Three weeks from now, the sun won't clear the tops of the fir tress across the road from us.) Still, the light lays out some nice shadows and puts a nice glow on things.

There is a parcel of land across from the brush pile fires. Until recently, there was a rather dilapidated house on the site that sat abandoned for three years as construction of a new house began. In that time, a foundation has been dug and poured, but not much else, except for the removal of the old structure. Why I bother with this background I cannot say, yet this slow pace of country life does afford a mild curiosity about the goings-on of (would-be) neighbors, and as I drove back toward home, having already dismissed the potential of a photograph of the burn, glanced up at the home site.

And I continued down the road, but not much further before looking for a place to turn around.

Dys-mal

They had a system: One chipper/shredder chewed up the logs, stumps, limbs and twigs — whole trees, except in parts — into chunks that were then fed by conveyor into another chipper that made the bits even smaller, suitable for landscaping. Large tractor trailers hauled the mulch away. This went on for several weeks until the first machine broke. They fixed it in a few days and got back to the mulching. The next day the other machine broke down. The day after that both machines were gone. And the next, the first of many large fires were started. A week later and there is still much left to burn, yet there are now several large piles of smouldering ash and soil.

I want to take pictures but they are working. Plus, as I have many photos of various fires, I have begun to wonder if I may have a problem.

I could shoplift instead.

I know I've mentioned the big brush piles before. Without looking at back postings, I remain unsure how much I have told you, which brings up another little worry: Am I repeating myself too much? Comes with age, I know.

He sits at the head of the dinner table, for that's how it's done and tells you all you need to know. A cut glass ashtray to his right holds a lit Salem cigarette that he draws on between bites of food and sips on the third gin martini to his left. The filter is pinched nearly shut from how he holds it. You also already know this took place some time ago.

He has just finished telling a story. One he has told many times, but perhaps not in a while, for this table and house are new to the visitors. It is a forgettable tale, lost in a handful of others you need not be bothered with. The male visitor makes a comment about how we tell these stories we think define us, each time as if it gives new insight. The Head takes a drag and as he exhales, asks, "Who are you talking about?" The visitor apparently is not as slick as he thinks he is.

("You, you pathetic fuck!")

"I was thinking of Grandfather."

Large, rust and gray-colored, smouldering piles.

After away for Thanksgiving

Had I not entered the paddock to shovel their shit from inside the hoop house that is their shelter from the weather, the mules would have stayed in the far field, oblivious to the turkey flock that had wandered inside the fence in search of

what?

Food, yes; but diet?

Grass, weed seeds, worms in old dung and flies on fresh?

The mules were curious about other things: me, or rather, had I brought treats or hay? That wheel barrow and shovel again, and, no doubt a shove to clear them from the gate when finished; and only then, the birds. Heads down and at a trot, they divided the flock, some into adjacent fields, others flying a good hundred yards into the big firs out front and fifty feet up.

Chuck chuck chuck

The big tom calls out to meet under the crab apple.

The ladies chirp from their perch and one-by-one, glide over the house.

I watch this as I try to drown out a vole, hose down one hole until all of the other holes glisten with small reflections of the clouds.

Rain is coming on a strong wind and I still have chores, leaves to rake and add to the dung. Leaves the turkeys now turn over. (Dung piled against the compost pile.) I wonder if like chickens and guineas, they eat rodents, for none come forth.

More leaves foreshadow. The rain, that is, yet for the turkeys, in reverse as I approach with garbage bag and rake in hand.

(I counted twelve birds last week; today, ten.)

I will pick up more manure and leaves tomorrow.

Back from forth

"I don't know why she's being this way." This half-assed apology was further diminished in its sincerity when the owner of the little yapper of a shit-dog did nothing in an attempt to quiet the thing in its carrier across the aisle and one row back on the jet.

Knowing that if I made a big fuss, I might be the one who suffered the Marshall, I shot him an angry look and muttered, "Just plain rude. Next time, sedate the thing." Why the wife felt a need to defend the dog and its owner escaped me.

"People bring unruly children on the plane..."

"Sedate them too." Or, distract them with an activity, which is what the post-holiday returning mother across the aisle and one row back could have done with her toddler.

A good half hour of this crap going to and leaving the City of Angels like open and closing music selections and the perfect soundtrack for what awaited and, a week later, left behind.

Perhaps the saving grace was that we did not stay in the city proper.

Yet, business called, as did a certain type of culture, and a friend. "Do you think LA is an ugly city?" he asked just as I was thinking that it was just that.

"There is some nice architecture, but it is hidden under a film of dust and grime. The people make me think there is a larger concentration of misery per square mile than many other places." 

"Do you think you could live here if you had to?"

"I suppose so."

For a week or so

Expect very little, if anything at all.

Enjoy Thanksgiving.

Decisions and Process

Good, empty photograph
the print the aftermath
allows for the forest
while forgoing the trees

Clichéd, yes, and one should know that I passed up a good photo op while unsuccessful in another.

*

The gutters and window wells are cleared, although the weather promises wind tomorrow, no doubt bringing a good number of the leaves that remain attached to branches down to dam. We have not yet had cold to stifle all of the green, but it may not matter with a gust or two.

Still, there is little doubt winter will soon be here, not only, but certainly in the holiday spirit. The sound of helicopters assures it.

The Christmas tree harvest has been in full swing the past two weeks. Albeit tempted, I have resisted taking yet more photos of the process. The newspaper reports the farmers will sell the trees for an average of $14, forgetting to mention that the profit is $2 for the seven years (on average) the tree remains in the field. And I have already documented the wholesale ripping up of acre upon acre of the trees that have been given up on. I don't know how photojournalists do it. (I am aware there is a matter of degrees, which is the only reason to mention it.) When all is said and done, I am not motivated.

Evidence the two-day harvest no more than two hundred yards from our house. There was potential for some close-up action near the road. A big operation covering untold acres. So large, it was habitat for a flock of turkeys now displaced to wander the adjacent properties. And so close to Thanksgiving...

How could I not?

Buggy

There is a scene in the film adaptation of Dicken's "A Christmas Carol" where Scrooge, played by Alister Sims, is just about to be visited my his old business partner's ghost. Hearing voices, bells ringing where none are rung, he tries to convince himself that a piece of uncooked potato may be the cause of his hallucinations. For me, it might be a fast-food burger and fries, because I was certain of ghosts at the home game last night. Or, it may just be too much time playing No Fold 'em on Stars. net. Despite more than doubling up, it was less than a stellar performance.

It has been a couple months since I have played live poker, let alone for cash. Money has been a little tight, or rather, with the prospect of replacing the truck in the near future, we are reassessing our cash flow. I drove to the game trying to shake off a little dread.

I was second to deal and forgot to burn a card before the flop.

I played 3c6c from early position, turned the idiot end with callers, slowed down but there was no showdown with my value bet.

Value bets ruled the night, not because I was playing correctly but because I was afraid of coolers.

AK > AQ on a KQx flop and I'm worrying the guy who led out preflop had KQ. I did manage to get it all in good but I had just lost a hand with a bad kicker, so I was down to 2/3 of my buy-in.

Crazy Pineapple hand and I flop Queens over Kings, and I'm worried someone has Kings. They don't. My chicken shit bet sizing worked perfectly to keep a guy in with his Broadway. Bully for me.

Pot-sized bet on a dry flop when I have KK.

Value my ass.

I'm yawning and I can't stop. The time is crawling. It takes forty-five minutes for us to orbit once in an eight-handed game. I blow another deal. All I want to do is go home.

So, I do.

Today I have been tired all day. More excessive yawning. All I want to do is sleep, and have done a fair amount of napping. I have the chills. I shit my brains out just a while ago.And now I remember: I turned the compost pile yesterday in order to bury a diseased raccoon I had to shoot. No, I didn't touch the animal. I turned the compost.

It's the same every time. There are organisms at work that make that pile of shit and grass steam.

And I sure the fuck don't want to play any poker right now.

I'll be fine in the morning.

It's Not Supposed

That's the title of a new drawing. It's also the content, of sorts, in that the words are scratched into the wet surface of an overworked, smudge of colors. What can I say? Very little, as anti a hole, writing the story of the walls in a dry well or singing the song of a whirlpool, the aesthetic of bathos. I blame Beauty.

I have a list of such titles, long enough to needlepoint a sampler of self-reference. Out of that context, they mean nothing. The remains of remains of remains. The place it fell apart. Confessions of a low thread count. Seldom the twain shall meet more traces than traits. Denials in formalism. Reworked into little uncommitted touches. The titles are enough, but not of something. Parts are missing. And so, as hard to explain, too easy.

Thankfully, not everything.

I am tempted to post a photo. A revisit, meaning an image from a few years back, or a photograph made yesterday because of an old idea not yet fully explored. It occurs to me that both will bring some clarity to the above.

I now see the world is imperfect

 Primaries

Untoward

I (heart) BIG FAKE TITS

Hey, I was taken aback as well. Who in their right mind would have that as a bumper sticker? Someone who does, yes, but to what end publicize? Dysmorphics are easy? So easy as to follow along behind in hopes of admiration? Not an un-amusing image.

I do believe the accompanying sticker advertising an energy drink may give us a little more insight about the driver.

I did try to get my camera out of its bag, turned on, focused and clicked before the vehicle was given the left turn arrow, but see no need to post the blurry, ill-timed attempt. And soon enough, I was given my green and sent down another road.

She was a stunner. I should have run as fast as I could in the other direction. But like I said, I was paralyzed.

Clouds

I have neglected to mention the baby Barn Owl. I heard it chirping away, night and day a couple weeks ago. Then it stopped. Mom was a single parent and the weather was turning. I hoped, but not too much. The mother is still in the lean-to, which is a good thing.  We'll look forward to spring with her in mind.

*

There's a sprinkling of snow at about 2,000 feet. I saw it in the distance as I was coming back from town. I looked to see if the higher elevations had more, but the clouds were piled up against the mountains, so no go.

Man, the clouds today! It was difficult to keep my eyes on the road. I had my camera, yet, I'm afraid I haven't done the scenes justice. But when has that stopped me?

As is the case on days like this, the light changed dramatically from one minute to the next. I will admit to some adjustments in PhotoShop.

I did manage to take a couple photos that I like quite a bit. And as I prepare to upload them, I recall a comment made by a person I know about some of his recent photos. He shared one with folks on Facebook and then added, "I have others but they are too good for Facebook." Who has his head in the clouds?

I like this one because of its counter-intuitive composition.

This last one has received several 'Likes'. So there.

Facing into the wind

More frost. Fog. And the last of the sunshine for a few days. Speaking of the weather, we search for a way to slip to something more substantial.

Not that the weather isn't. Atoms in motion are very relevant and, in large amounts, make an impression.

The work on the dungeon continues. A third of the floor has been vacuumed and mopped, surfaces cleaned and re-cluttered with items rearranged for easier filing. The wife has offered to help, to which I have declined. However, she has successfully lobbied against the further use of PineSol.

I wish I could recall what led up to her asking this morning what my evil voice had to say about my progress. My answer, in a low gutteral: "Organization is death." And returning to a normal tone, "I have thought about this."

It begins with a single file on my desktop, "In case I am dead." It is as close as I have gotten to making a Will. Then it continues with archiving years of work into a digital format to make the expressed wishes more manageable, all of which pales in light of the jumble of other files on my desktop and hard drives. I create much more than I categorize; the latter comes under pressure.

An accounting. That's what it is.

Some of our trees have lost most of their leaves, yet there are many more that have yet to lose much at all. Many are still green. The clear gutters are evidence. As I pile papers I realize how long it has been since the last structuring, but even this is skewed for I know from past attempts that I have been content to stop with cosmetic improvements and 'get back to work'.

Compartmentalization is the grave, but it makes things less chaotic, yes?

(form and content) happens

Frost. Pretty hard, although I haven't bothered to check the lettuce in the garden to find out just how bad. I do know traversing the back porch that will remain in shade for the next six months is a bit tricky. At least the sun is shining, and we should be seeing mid-fifties for a thorough melt.

I believe I can now say that I am out of my mid-fifties, although were we to round to the closest point, the mid- or the next zero, I have another (yes) six months before the technical hump.

I didn't plan the symmetry. Ask my wife and she will confirm it is not my strong point.

I make lists in a notebook and on post-its that eventually make it either to the notebook, or when completed or temporally prioritized into irrelevance, find their way to the trash can. Yet, the notebook carries no guarantee beyond accumulation; and as each notation does not necessarily indicate a simple matter, the book fills with delayed gratifications as simple as a 'thank-you'.

Most likely the avoidance is more complex, more content to gather than organize, the need to sort always more of a growing necessity than insatiable desire. For instance, I could convince myself that my cluttered studio is installation art.

I could, and the dust bunnies an audience, thusly propelled forward, the oblivion camouflaged like wanting to draw when only doodles are forthcoming. So inspired by gentle chastisement, I will start with vacuuming.

Between the Lines

I've kissed the wife good night and watched her climb the stairs. I have a small glass of absinthe with three ice cubes, and as such spirits do, it has clouded with the cold and the melt. I haven't been up this late or had alcohol at this hour in a week or more. It is my birthday.

It is also the anniversary of my grandmother's death, something my mother marks better than I. Today I remember it because earlier I had occasion to think of my grandfather. He was a tea-totaler. Now always. He had a glass of champagne at my aunt's wedding in 1967. Before that, 1938 or so. A man got on his bad side. That's the story, anyway, and as one might imagine, I only heard it once, so the facts are sketchy, and the retelling might be stumbling, not unlike a long flight of stairs after a powerful fist in the face.

(This stuff is made from wormwood yet? Artemesia? I imagine green gossamer, or catching a lacewing only to make a wish upon its release. A slightly indiscreet fantasy, but I must admit, the taste, although something like anise, has a strange, astringent aftertaste. an infidelity that cannot be undone.)

My grandfather. I bucked bales for him at twelve years but it was a mere eleven acres and two-wire straw. His father died when my grandfather was only eleven. He graduated 8th grade and went to the coal mines at fourteen; he helped build the railroad, a tie on each shoulder at a time, to that mine; and, as a challenge of strength at sixty-five, threw this seventeen year old like a wet rag from one end of the kitchen to the other. I know men like that today. I am not one of them.

He put an ax in his shin at seventy-two, and all of that history became all that he was for his last eight years.  I could say more but I instead encourage you to only contemplate the scar.

That is the German side of the family. The other half, absent of much of a history, is French. The incursion in reverse. As my gift to you, make of it as you are prone.

No, I thought about my grandfather in response to these times we live in, times I am grateful for his death. He loved this country. He read three newspapers a day and editorialized from his Lazy Boy. His heroes were John Lewis, FDR and Will Rogers. Those names carry little weight today. It is not that he would not recognize the world now, but it may have turned him again to drink.

I have finished my cocktail. A few slivers of ice remain. I remain unaltered, save a sluggishness in word choice. No hallucinations, save persistent delusions no doubt more readily identifiable to others. Perhaps I have divulged more than is customary, though degree has never been a issue, now, has it? I will leave you, then, with this incomplete thought: Two Flags Not Dissimilar.

Soft Spot

I'm uncertain whether it is proper to mention episodes of online poker in that I no longer play for money. Events that occur in the play money rooms seem to not merit the time spent writing or reading about them in that the game and players are often sub-par. Likewise, the big hands: straight flushes, four-of-a-kinds, etc., seem empty of real satisfaction, even when one gets paid. Yet, sometimes other things happen in the game that seems to spur a tale.

I have been playing a lot of six-handed O-8 ("a lot" being 50-100 hands a day). I sat at a table yesterday that seemed even-keeled, meaning that there wasn't a jackass raising up every hand preflop regardless of position, and the players seemed competent, including the player to my right. Until, after everyone folded, she (her name was Kathy) flashed a made Broadway on the big, rainbow flop.

"I don't think we doubt your credibility." I typed after the hand.

"?"

"Your flash."

"I always do that."

"OK." Who am I to discourage (when I already did)?

The game continued. I cannot remember how I was doing, except to say, as I have in the past, these games are extremely soft, and I rarely leave down (Big deal!).

I was the BB with suited Kings, checked, and saw a flop with two more to match, plus a Ten. The SB, Kathy, checked, as did I, and as did the other four players. The turn was a Queen, and Kathy bet, I raised, and everyone else folded to Kathy, who then re-raised. Well, you know the rest.

"Creep."

"I was waiting."

Now, my dear, mere handful of readers, you know that I played this well. And you also know that I do not wish to endure ill will, even in a virtual environment, so you will also understand that with all of these factors combined, it was nothing for me to donk off a bit of my winnings to her the very next hand.

"Better?" I asked.

"At least I bet my hand."

As did I. As did I.

Drama

I really should be doing something else. A lot of else.
I remind myself that two cups of coffee are daunting.

Two left feet, walking around on bloody ankles,
a rug would give me traction, if not pulled out.

I am not alone in self-sabotage, no doubt a trait universal to humans, at least to some degree. Truth is, a lot of good is coming my way and the alter-ego feels left behind. He does not want to belabor the major exhibition in the spring, or the early interest it has generated. He defers to caution.  He wants to hide. Fear is always easier.

It may be the coffee. It may be that the sun tells me I should be outside.

Here's the deal: the website needs to be redone. It has been long in coming and if you were to see my files, you would understand the sifting required in the mound. And, somewhere on this messy desk are notes to make the task easier.

Easier. I am readily distracted by formal considerations, even though I choose which ones are crucial. Believe it or not.

Excavated Mound

I have been working toward this my whole life, and with that comes a history. I suppose jitters are allowed.

Nice day for putzing around the yard

Thumpity thumpity thumpity oops!

No idea what caused it. No specific idea, as universal a lifestyle may seem at times. I do that a lot, back off with a qualification, not just for a signature stylistic (referring back to the overall theme) like an alarm clock set for bed instead of floor, socks, sweats, shirt, phone, glasses, downstairs, good-morning, a careful closed-mouth kiss, coffee and whatever is otherwise required. No, set for the late hour, something like the tides only in reverse, and I reluctantly acknowledge I have had enough of the implausible.

The thing is, there's a small typographical conundrum in which I have touched the dot one too many times and it straggles, pushing me forward in the way that a paradox often does, against my better judgement, for tomorrow comes quick, nay, has arrived, and now it is the particulars that propel me to another line.

I swear, I had intended to stop. Accustomed is what it is, a matter of habit, or several, that find me debilitated yet... and then it comes, the blank stare.

.

Too late to return to the initial impetus, in fact, no longer an issue, or so it seems, so now a decision must be made.

I'll go to sleep.



No idea what caused it. No specific idea,
as universal a lifestyle may seem
at times. I do that a lot,
back off with a qualification, not
just for a signature stylistic
(referring back to the overall theme) like
an alarm clock set for bed instead
of floor, socks, sweats, shirt, phone, glasses,
downstairs, good-morning, a careful closed-mouth kiss,
coffee and whatever is otherwise required.

No, set for the late hour, something like the tides only in reverse,
and I reluctantly acknowledge I have had enough of the implausible.

The thing is, there's a small typographical conundrum in which I have touched the dot
one too many times and it straggles, pushing me forward in the way that a paradox often does,
against my better judgement, for tomorrow comes quick,
nay, has arrived,
and now it is the particulars that propel me to another line.
I swear, I had intended to stop. Accustomed is what it is, a matter of habit,
or several, that find me debilitated yet... and then it comes, the blank stare.

.

Too late to return to the initial impetus,
in fact, no longer an issue, or so it seems, so now a decision must be made.

I'll go to sleep.

Test

We had our first frost last night, evidence still on the ground at 0900h in the bright sunshine and heavy dew. Similarly, my wife is returning today from five days in Southern California.

She has been visiting her parents, helping both in her father's recovery after surgery two weeks ago yesterday. I was supposed to leave today to pick up where she left off, but it seems they have had enough of company for a while and want their time alone with their familiar dynamic. I know the feeling.

That was Tuesday. As of tomorrow I'll be on my own again for three more days. The cat and dog will be here. She's off with a friend who is visiting, leaving me to my devices and duties.

I have a gopher trap that I have not checked in several days. There are three more working their way through the close paddocks and around the barns. I must get to them.

I have brush to burn and compost to turn.

I bet the winter squash are ripe and greens ready to be picked.

I may get around to cleaning my studio.

And then she'll be home again.

I bet I'm forgetting something.

Searching for Context

My initial reaction was a slight disgust mixed with disorientation, although to be exacting, I suppose simultaneity is unlikely and it is out of convenience the memory becomes compressed. Yet, I do know that the first truck was chock full of Christmas trees, which was immediately followed by another to-the-gills with ears of corn headed for the cannery. My head was dancing from the seasonal incongruity of elsewhere as a habit of mind.

It is not so much two directions at this point, but more a choice of themes, the easier a matter of temporality. The more difficult will have to wait, and with a little luck be prompted as we progress through the former's telling.

For there was a tell, her feigned surprise not it; instead, my too quick recognition of the voice a millisecond before my eyes could match it up. Yes, I had already seen her and decided it best to avoid any sort of conversation in the grocery line. Fifteen items or less would not be express enough. Now, whether she knew that I knew, she might have the advantage, for poker players are no match for boozers when it comes to sizing up responses. I did brief-and-pleasant and still found a way to gently spurn. "Just too busy. I'm sure you understand." is a recently discovered tactic, and close kin to the academe's "You surely must be aware of A's work on Z." All most likely not lost on her.

Oh, I suppose we could have conversed in code:

 — How's Joe?

— The same.

— Shame. The same for you as well?

The outcome would have been the same and the check out clerk would not have been any wiser save for vanishing smiles. Or, it could have gone like this:

— How are Joe's tremors?

— Gone.

The smiles would remain but then I would have to listen the following Friday when the garbage truck comes by in order to verify. And what if it were as she said?  Even if I heard the clink of bottles, what would that prove? How does one blot out the blotto (I could not resist and should be ashamed that I am not above such) of the past?

And there we have it. If I remember correctly, back home the sweet corn was gone by August.

Recurrance

Awake from more of a long nap than a night's sleep, and not that restful, on the couch, over-dressed as I am and with the heat too high, remnants of the dream come with me as I fix a glass of ice water.

I had been in the apartment before, alone with her; yet, this time two younger men accompanied us. They were art critics from New York. I knew where the glasses were kept and went to get one, for the pizza had made me very thirsty. I wondered if I was being too presumptuous helping myself as the other two wandered about and made comments about art on her walls and books on her shelves  It was all too smug, easy, their flow about the place, and therefore subtleties were no doubt missed, like the transparent glass, the simple gesture of pulling it from the cabinet with its smooth rim tilted toward my face, of course interrupted as one of the boys had found half of a stale baguette and cradled it from the living room to the kitchen.

I have no interest in taking liberties, nor pursuing any hint, now at an age when dreams replace youthful impulse, intimacy as sharing such a station. And just now it occurs to me that this is what she was trying to tell me the last time we met, as uneasy as it was for me at the time to watch the pain cross her face. Why, I wondered, did she feel the need to tell me of past indiscretions? Was it a lead on? I had my share as well, and admitted such, and her faced smoothed. Perhaps that is all we both needed to know, that none of it ever brought joy, and therefore this new friendship would be safe.

I have downed four full glasses since I began this writing. No doubt, too much sodium in the pizza. I check my ring finger for verification, can see the pressure mark and barely slide my band up and down. Having recalled the dream, it will not return, yet the symbolic persists.

Details

I don't suppose you want to know about my truck breaking down northbound at Mile Marker 267, but it did. The temperature gauge showed no issue, nor the oil gauge, yet the rhythmic tick as I accelerated told me that prudence would be to pull over and make the necessary phone calls.

The fluid I saw in parking lots over the last week under my truck was mine after all. It would have been very easy to verify. Somewhere in the back of my mind I must have believed that the third radiator installed in as many years surely couldn't be faulty. And that temperature gauge, had it been acting weird ever since the last radiator exploded? Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

All very calmly assessed during and after. Even the dread of no longer having a truck, me looking at myself in anguish. Dread is dread, no?

The starlings in the trees alongside the freeway kept me company. So did the garbage, always amazed at the accumulations of both. Plus the volume of traffic. I had my hazard lights on, and cautiously stayed outside the vehicle, but not so far away that I couldn't quickly reach inside the passenger door for my coffee in the cup holder. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick One of those state emergency trucks pulled up behind me and I walked over to his passenger window.

"I have a tow coming."

"OK. I have a 1990. Good little truck with 250K on it."

"This one," I said, pointing at my truck," had 250 on it too before it got a new motor. 30K on the rebuilt, so I'm hoping I just didn't kill the damn thing."

"Well, good luck."

The tow arrived fifteen minutes earlier than when they said it would. Still, I had to piss twice, cozied up against the open door while aiming for inside the corner made by it and the floorboard. And agin, I grabbed for the coffee.

"I got a '92. Had an extra motor that just needed a valve cover until a couple weeks ago. Sold it for $200. Too bad."

My wife picked me up from our mechanic's.

"You didn't hear that funny noise yesterday?"

"The ball joints in old Toyotas always make that noise on a tight turn."

"Not that noise."

Guess not, too in love with the new stereo, now that both channels work.

Polywog Math

Alternating between overcast and its full potential, rain comes fast from the southeast. Still, it is warm enough to go without the wood stove and to keep the buzzards aloft on said wind. They circle their last, en masse, and file off in twos over my head. I feel fortunate to have witnessed the procession, out walking the dog, feeding charcoal to the smoker and saying goodbye to my wife as she leaves on errands.

*

Good news. The ritual piece I started some years back is to be seen in its entirety next spring. The word 'entirety' is misleading, as I had intended it be finished some months ago; yet, Nature had other plans and cajoled me to nurture the emergence of new green, which, in turn, gave fruit and, likewise, seed. I now foresee no end to this process, although the task may be given/transferred to others. ...shown in its potential...

Still, I am cautious. Sadly, these days six months is a long time in the art world, so I shall concentrate on what will be sent to that same venue this month. Said the dealer: "Crazy beautiful. I see sales, so send three prints, signed and numbered out of five." You've seen it, the carcass on a fence. Therein lies a rub in that we have lost three of the same mammal this year. Feral or not, there is trepidation for when I break the news over dinner.

Smoked trout, asparagus in butter and garlic, and the last of our heirloom tomatoes for the season.  The asparagus? Of course from California somewhere, somehow. I cooked. We ate. I both broached and answered ambiguously until how many prints would be needed. As the song says, accentuate the positive. Sins of omission a prophylactic salve.

*

Have you noticed? No, not so much here, but elsewhere. I am thinking of performance. Readings. Dare I write it? A book. Tonight, the tree frogs' sweet chirps said, "Find thee an editor."

Half Life

An old book with a post-it marking where I left off, page thirty-seven, some eighteen and a half years ago. I'm guessing. The notations and underlines are from the previous owner, this book a gift, and I have no recollection of the text itself, except for the note in ink on the small piece of yellow paper. I recognize the handwriting. I know the name mentioned. I may or may not have read any of the book. Other things I'll never forget.

Don't worry. I have no plans to burn my library. Besides, I pulled the book for a reason: Maybe this time I will read it in entirety. I want to. After all, that is the reason. For the action, anyway. And should I read it, I will hurry toward my purpose lest I forget what it is I want to understand from it. Learn, understand, apply. So simple a method.

What book? A matter? Were I to write my own, some things would hold true, as in constant, along with the paradox contained,  always a portion that slips away, unrecognizable except perhaps for style. A partial print, if you will, or a poem written for an anniversary.

An oddity: As soon as I walk into a library I have to take a shit. Granted, decaying paper may have something to do with it. Yet, the associative mind and the limbic brain coexist, so credit must be given to that initial impulse in prey or hunter to lighten the load, my satchel no match for the shelves contained within. And with that I leave my mark. See if I haven't.

So there the book sits, it's cover carries a photo of the author, much younger than now, somewhat attractive, perhaps Sephardic and therefore most likely the brunette she is, lips parted just enough to show a bit of her slight overbite, her eyes intent on something to our right and behind us. There is wind enough to pull a wisp from behind her right ear. Her right hand resting on that side of her jaw tells us she is speaking with someone. Her dress is a simple print, and the ring on that finger is large and oblong, but not ostentatious. It occurs to me that the pose references the first word in the title: Desire. The remainder of words take another direction. We are to engage our minds.

The book is a collection of essays. There is an editor. Still very much alive, perhaps she was too busy or it was a favor.

"How are classes going?"

"Well, thank you."

"Has there been talk of tenure?"

I mean no ill will. Fondness exists for its proof.

All of this may be an avoidance. I have a thing for brunettes, and it often has not been in the best interest of either.

Last fishing trips

The kindly older gentleman asked, "When was the last time you took a full day to do something besides the things that hang over your head?" I shrugged. The "full day" aspect snagged.

"I am going fishing on Thursday."

"Well, good. See if you can get through the day without thinking of your to-do list. And if it does come up, then try to get back to your fishing. Gently."

Fishing is not always a s relaxing as it should be. Over the years I have told tales of fishing woes more than successes. Still, I persist in what seems the off chance that a good catch will offset the snags,  tangled lines, broken rods and tumbles on loose rock.

Of course, making the trip with a good buddy is a plus, and so it was yesterday, joking, catching up on what's new and enjoying the quiet that rests between us as we listen to the rapids and birds in the trees.

We spent the first part of the day on the river that has produced some nice salmon in past years. We were too early in the season, so it seemed, for the numbers were not there, although the fishermen were. It was clear that we might be better off going to our other spot on the smaller river, so we packed up and headed for the "Honey Hole."

The road that runs alongside this little river has seen some construction over the last couple years, and although the road is much-improved, the turn-out for our spot was reduced to a cliff-hanger of a shoulder, and rather than take a chance that it might give way under the car's weight, we now opt to park fifty yards further up. Parked and at the top of the culvert that leads down to our hole, my buddy remembered that he had left his walking stick back at the car and went to retrieve it. I had my stick, and anxious to get my line wet, proceeded down the 60° incline, first in the mud until I noticed what appeared to be a large flat rock that led down to other rocks that could act as steps, so I moved in that direction.

I have tried to recall whether I first stepped upon the big flat rock with my right or left. I cannot. Regardless, the foot did not stay and I began an hurried and erratic descent. I do know that I started on my tailbone and ended on my hands and knees. More a fetal position, and there I stayed.

The body doesn't always register pain immediately after trauma, especially in the case of severe injury, nerves having to establish new pathways, I suppose. I waited for those transmissions. My lower back hurt right away, like strained muscles, but I was more concerned about bones. I saw that somehow I had torn away parts of both thumbnails, but still no pain from those sites. Then I felt a burn on the outer aspect of my left thigh. I took no blood coming through my sweats as a good sign, and slowly stood up.

"What happened?" My buddy was standing up top.

I had my camera and cell phone in the left pocket of my sweats. I checked and both seemed undamaged.


My fishing rod was still intact. The glass jar of brined shrimp in my fishing vest had not broken either. My right thumb seemed to have taken the worse of it, but the blood was minimal. My thigh was a bit swollen and I had a six-by-two-inch raspberry to show for my efforts.

We went home without fish.


For some reason I am reminded of fishing trips I went on while in the Navy. I was stationed in Virginia and there were a number of good largemouth bass spots in the area but I was without a boat.  Through a roommate, I met an older gentleman who had a boat and vehicle to tow it, but had no driver's license as he was a drunk. But he loved to fish, and I wanted to fish, so I drove.


We were on a favorite little lake casting plastic worms against the shore when I got one helluva strike. I could tell it was a big fish but I failed to set the hook. As I retrieved my line in preparation for another try, the old guy reeled his line in faster and cast at the spot where I had the strike and pulled in a six-pound bass. Had I been successful if allowed a second try, it would have been the biggest fish I ever caught. I was peeved, but said nothing.


This guy lived with his wife and daughter. I rarely saw the wife but the daughter always seemed to be around when we were loading up or coming back. She didn't talk much but I got the impression she ran with a little tougher crowd than I. As Dad transferred the big bass to a galvanized tub of water, she came out to the garage with a cast on her right calf. She had broken her ankle as the passenger on a dumped motorcycle. Poor thing. I thought perhaps a night out on the town might be in order for the injured girl. We went to a movie, bought a six-pack of beer, went back to my apartment and propped that cold plaster on the small of my back.

Just another day and season

The crows gathered, pissed off by something on the other side of the road, behind the stand of firs. I had to think for a minute: Yes, a 'murder' and then write on my hand, "crows" so I would remember to look up the etiology.

No go, beyond some speculation about the 15th Century and various historical associations the birds have suffered, for instance, death. Poets, you know, ever-observant to a cloud-filled sky that suits a mood, along with everything else to build a few stanzas around a love gone too soon. The crows surely mock the self-absorbed.

So, I have added to the cliché.

*

One pristine apple among the scabbed; a dozen plums within reach; and, two pears that might ripen and then be worth pealing. The wet spring.

*

One gopher trapped.

*

A fire in the wood stove.

*

We had a bit of sun today. Enough to take the camera outside as I thought I might muster a watchful eye. To-do took a while and clouds began to gather, so I decided to expedite a project to take advantage of the light that may not be available for some weeks again, and in that way I could use the camera during a chore. A chore of sorts in that I did manage to sweat a little and it was something I would eventually have to do even though it served no practical purpose.

None of these are edible. Rather, I have no desire to cook any, the appearance of many akin to decorative gourds rather than the winter squash from which they are hybrids. This anticipation of foulness comes more from belief than experience (although one of the parent squashes are my favorites*) and a little research shows that I may be mistaken. Still, as many, I am afraid of some things of which I have no direct knowledge. Besides, I know neighbors who adorn their porches with such this time of year and the will be glad to have them. That said, I must admit some curiosity, so stand by.

*

Fishing this Thursday. Salmon are running.



*A point of clarification: The back row of yellow squash were grown and have been stored since last year. They are one of the parent fruits. Amazing keepers, but not my favorite.

Preparation for the prolonged

The rainy season is upon us. The clouds hang low in the mountains and the mountains appear to make their own clouds as well, wafts rising from where the ground below the canopy of fir trees has yet to cool. Fog rolls in on the farm.

There is little left in the garden that can be harvested... No, that is not entirely true. More like there is much that can salvaged. Tomorrow is supposed to give us a break before the next day's rain, so there will be an effort made.

Ah, tomorrow is today. A technical point, really, not much more, yet keeping with the tone and topic. The fact of the matter is that sleep comes upon me in the same manner as the weather. I could don my rain gear while better solutions exist.

*

The prognosticator offered no apology, and seemed to ever-so-gently tell me to suck it up. I really had no other option.

There remains still more to do, yet of the tasks I managed: the remainder of the eggplant, two gallons of jalapeños (from two plants), some kale for friends, a couple cucumbers; removal of the moss accumulating around the dormers on our roof; spoke with my father-in-law and my mother; dropped off the kale; and, filled the gas tank on my rig. Those are the 'shoulds'. My clothes from today are drying on a rack. A little poker, reading and writing, and dinner is upon us, which I will prepare. But first, a little more poker. Then 500 words. More reading. Then more poker, but still under 100 hands total.

So, a little of this and that makes up for the lamentable moments of sloth (poker) from the past week, despite flopping the Steel Wheel in O8.

*

Day 3

Still raining.

Today we sit by the phone waiting for word while dad-in-law is in surgery. He and I talked yesterday. He's a firm believer in "Shit Happens" and "Hang in There." Still... It is perhaps easier for me to visualize than most, having seen a lot of what happens under the knife and what follows. I keep my own counsel except to remind him that trauma does not always require this. We have made him a t-shirt for the time he will not be able to speak, which reads: "Just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I'm listening."

But

The real issue is a difference between anything and everything when preceding that particular conjunction. Yet, we'll dwell a bit in that terse little sucker a while before we move on.

For one, it was a word to be avoided in advertising. "Too negative," the Creative Director admonished. "Use 'yet'." And so I do, still, like a bad habit (which treads too close to the 'things'), for otherwise, why bring two things together only to tear them apart again, all within a given thought. That's two.

(Oh, I don't want to... Two. I thank both of you, yet hasten to add that I mean no slight to others.)

The world becomes contingent and that in itself is contrary enough for some to be dismissive, a reliance on the latter the usual custom. Nor will I accept contrition: Crazy Eddie, the Puerto Rican, says, "White people, they step on your toe and say 'sorry', and then step on it again." I am certain I am guilty, although never exactly sure of how; at least it slows me down. One can only write between one's own lines and must leave it up to others to do the reading. (Ah, that's a keeper!)

Enough.

Everything but: See what I mean? Inclusiveness shot to shit. Something short of the entire picture, locked without a key, or pressed for a third image that just won't materialize. And one knows it. I suppose it cannot be avoided.

Speaking of which, anything might be more to the point, the bar set a bit lower to include distractions. Admittedly, the tasks set forth and those that demand attention overwhelm like a wound one won't let heal. If one looks at mountains in a certain way, they become gashes.

Again, enough. Were it that easy.

I will tell you a story.

We had been talking about a weekly hike. It is so beautiful here, and there is much to see beyond the road. And I knew of a place. I had been there a couple years ago at about the same time of year that it is now, yet we had been talking about going since May. Something always seemed to interfere, which is, if nothing else, a warning against planning anything in that month.

Yes, I had been there before. I knew it involved a steady incline for two miles. The grade had impressed me, though hardly considered steep; yet, you two too will recall that I may have needed to rest on several occasions toward the promised spectacle due to that unwieldy thumper. I am pleased to record that this time I was able to maintain a pace that kept astride a 36 inseam to my 31, even though it was not I who tread four miles four times a week for years now. I kept up with my younger wife, yes.

We reached our destination.

And then continued on, all uphill. We discovered new paths that, as a way to return downhill, took us through more of Nature's splendor. We stopped mid-stride and kissed.

About a quarter mile from where our car was parked she mentioned her father's jaw cancer. His surgery is next Monday.

"What else can he do but endure it?" I asked. "He knows that."

"But it will be so traumatic. He is going to be in so much pain."

"He knows that as well. He is eighty years old. He has had surgery before. He knows sufferings of other kinds."

"But he doesn't want to talk about it."

"He is being courageous."

Another reason to hate Full Tilt Poker

I had dinner with a Poker Academy friend tonight. We've played poker together for several years now, met a couple times in Las Vegas with the PA crowd, and visited when he has layovers up in the city. The conversations are always rewarding when we get the chance. And after a couple/three hours, we're talked out, perhaps because we cover a lot of ground, not all of it poker-related, and a good amount heart-felt. Guys can only handle so much of the latter, you know.

When I returned home, my wife asked me about my evening. I touched on the topics and somehow the PA Forums came up. To tell the truth, I hadn't given much thought to them since the PA plug was unceremoniously pulled.

"The forums are gone?" she asked. "All of the photos and stories from Las Vegas?"

A few PA players have found another site to play on with each other. It pales and is almost painful to play on the interface. The bots that seed the tables are absolute shit and play a fit or fold game with no calculations for pot odds. In short, it's a farce and I'll join a table only to visit with longtime friends. The contrast with what we had at PA makes me angry.

But the forums... Now I'm sad.

Fuck the owners of PA: Full Tilt. Sure, they stole money from their clients. Thieves. They also decimated a community. What does that make them?