The week that was

I've been back for a few days now. More than a few, but no matter.

One pays for these trips both coming and going. I knew —and made mention— I was coming home to errands and chores left undone, and I'm happy to say I've secured two cords of wood to be delivered Thursday and at a good price. I have been able to finish spreading the bark mulch I started before I left. (The wife did a good deal of spreading while I was gone.) And yesterday I climbed the ladder up to the very tippy-top of the greenhouse to scrape off the last of the old seam tape. Ah, stretched out over a ladder for several hours... and now my left calf is not cooperating; indeed, it is complaining loudly.

So, it is one of those days, forced into multiples of flexing exercises. And with accounting a symptom of inactivity, I thought it best to deal with some long overdue correspondence.

Yes, the exhibit in Chicago:

Last I wrote we were still waiting to install. All went well and it was joy to work in tandem with my friend and former professor. Once we were in the gallery, we had the show up in about six hours. His part took two; it was mine that required the extra time, partly because of the intricacies of spacing, but mostly because of considering the order of the work so as to make the "read" more available to the viewer.

So, without further ado, here's what it looked like:

The top photo is my part of the room. The second is my friend's work on opposing walls.

I am guessing all of the photos can be enlarged so as to see them/read them better.

In short, the people who own the gallery said it was one of the better shows they've had in some time. They also thought the opening was well-attended. Everyone involved seemed pleased and the response from gallery-goers, old friends and strangers alike, was very complimentary. I have been invited back to do another project at another one of their spaces in two years.

And now to make hay, strike while the iron is hot, etc. But first, this fucking leg...

Time warped

I should be asleep. Or rather, I wouldn't mind if I was asleep right now instead of awake after an hour nap.

I could blame it on the time difference between Chicago and home, for I never go to bed as early as I did tonight, not without similar results. Or, it might be the road noise. There is a major road right outside the window next to my bed and still a fair amount of traffic at the midnight hour.

Still, I must ad to this a certain amount of anticipation that has crept into my mind that takes an extra measure of sedation to allow me distance. Last night was easy. It was my first night in town, and as is the tradition these last few years, my friends made certain I was mighty toasty before I laid my head on a pillow. Tonight, none of us had the wherewithal for a repeat performance, especially on a "school night."

They have been asleep for a couple hours now. And if I sit here for another five hours, I will be able to greet both them and first light.

Oh, and there is a sports bar next door. I just heard two patrons laughing as they got into their vehicle. I suppose there were some big games today...

I am glad to see my friends. The ones I am staying with are very dear friends. I have known the husband for over thirty years, his wife for almost twenty. They put me up every time I come into town. Yet, I also believe in the three-day rule and will move into a small studio apartment nearby tomorrow. It is tucked away on a side street and in the back of a house. It is owned by friends of friends, and so with less at stake, it is there I will stay until I return home next week.

It is a long time to be away from home. And, in truth, had I known when I made my flight reservations I wouldn't be able to install my show until this coming Wednesday evening or Thursday, I would not have come out as early as I did. As busy as I was around the farm before I left, I left chores undone that will be more difficult to finish upon my return, for tonight the wife told me rain is in the extended forecast.

It is sometimes hard to believe that I lived in this city for nearly twenty years. Sure, it has changed quite a bit in the eleven years since we left. I am astonished at the gentrification that has taken hold in some neighborhoods. And frustrated by the lack of parking in what was once my particular hinterland. Wholly aware that back in the day I was very much a part of making it happen now, I still want to stand out on the street and yell at the entitled, self-absorbed hipsters who seem to gloat over living in this 'hood, "I remember when!"

The wife knew this wasn't going to be an easy trip for me, and fittingly bought me a t-shirt to wear for my opening that reads "Village Elder." And believe me, I take some comfort in the light self-mockery wearing it will bring. While I am as comfortable as I can be with the body of work I have brought to exhibit,  and I wouldn't have passed up this opportunity for the world, there is a part of me that would rather be stacking the two cords of firewood I have yet to order at about the same time the first people show up for the opening.

First things first

Here's the press release for my exhibit:

The Suburban will host exhibitions by longtime friends and colleagues Dennis Kowalski and Patrick Collier in September and October. The opening reception is 2-4 pm Sunday, September 21, at The Suburban, 125 N. Harvey Ave. in Oak Park, IL.

Kowalski is a central figure in the history of contemporary art in Chicago. His particular approach to conceptual art in the 1970s set the pace for many younger artists to follow. In recent years his inspiration has come from the impact humans have on their environment, stating, “It is more difficult to maintain a civilization as it is to create one. We appear to lose interest.”

A native Chicagoan, Kowalski grew up across the street from Midway Airport when the area was still very much undeveloped and therefore had a sense of the natural about it. He has watched the city fill in while at the same time disintegrate: “The maintained sections of city come and go, and change location, yet continually deteriorate. For me, there are two symbols that typify this phenomenon: architecture/built structures and nature. Architecture deteriorates as the civilization deteriorates. It is destroyed through war, changing functional ideologies and changing styles.” This ever-changing yet neglected city of Chicago, just like most large cities, does not necessarily allow for a return to nature unaffected by the blight. “Nature has never been abused as it has within the last two hundred years or so. This factor certainly impacts the sustainability of current and future civilizations.” Kowalski’s installation at The Suburban will reflect these ideas.

Collier came to Chicago in 1985 as a writer transitioning into the visual arts. He received his MFA from the University of Illinois at Chicago in 1992. In 1998 he and his wife, Gillian Hearst, opened a gallery, bona fide, on West Chicago Ave. Collier was also a regular contributor to The New Art Examiner. In 2003 the couple moved to a small farm in Oregon and for several years grew organic vegetables for market. Not long after his arrival in Oregon, Collier became involved in the Portland art community and currently writes art criticism for Oregon ArtsWatch. Working in a variety of media, he often incorporates writing and forms suggestive of text into his visual art. Collier states, “A sentence in its expressiveness is not all that much different than a horizon in its expansiveness.” Most recently, he has explored this theme in his photographic work, some of which will be on view at The Suburban.

About The Suburban: The Suburban is an independently run artist exhibition space in Oak Park, IL. We give complete control to the artists in regards to what they choose to produce and exhibit. Thus it's a pro artist and anti curator site. The Suburban is not driven by commercial interests. It is funded within the economy of our household. Its success is not grounded in sales, press or the conventional measures set forth by the international art apparatus, but by the individual criteria set forth by the artists and their exhibitions. In this, The Suburban is more closely aligned with the idea of studio practice than that of the site of distribution.

Something in the water

Yeah, about once every five weeks or so seems about right. It's been that long since I wrote here, and if memory serves me, that's been the pace as of late. I think about shutting this down completely, yet that seems too drastic. It may be nostalgia for the good ol' days of posting every day that keeps me from doing so, those days we all fondly remember because a game was always at-the-ready and there was sure to be a hand to be discussed. We developed a kinship around a flop.

For some, the game maintained a strong grip. For others like myself, Black Friday took the wind out of all my sails save the jib. Health issues didn't help, and may have even been partially exacerbated by all of the adrenaline and cortisol released into my system on a daily basis. Yet the breeze behind that one lone sail I reserve for keeping some small degree of contact with all of you, cheering you on as you succeed at the game, or just to check in from time to time.

I have a 5 hp outboard for my monthly home game and online practice. Big enough to play; too small to make the effort to tell you about it.

I am aware that many of my posts have an air of melancholy about them. This one is no different, except that I'm feeling pretty good, all things considered. I'm taking a lot of photos, both continuing my field burn series and shooting a lot of the offbeat stuff that really floats my boat; I'm painting in preparation for bombing my Saatchi Online page with tons of new work; my show in September is all ready to go except for building the shipping crates (fun!) and sending it off; and, I'm getting a good amount of work done around the farm.

No, the pall today is likely the result of what is going on in the lives of others. I have a friend who is so close to suicide that he has asked to be hospitalized; another friend's husband is back on crack and one of her daughters is stealing from her; another friend's husband is an alcoholic who has her terrified to move; and then add my wife's menagerie of fucked-up friends to the roll. Granted, this shit has been going on for ages. And I could list more. The difference is that I'm not in that same boat anymore. Not so much, anyway.

Now I listen. I try to only offer advice when asked.

To be honest, I've detached a bit, albeit (as they say in Al-Anon) with love.

As I write this (and yes, I've been in Al-Anon for over a year now), I make an association with another part of my life that I quite enjoy, and that is doing studio visits with other artists. (I was invited tonight to do just that with four or five graduate sculpture students at an art school in Chicago when I am there next month. I will be paid for doing it, but truth be known, I would do it for free, and have done so many, many, many, many times both in and out of the academic setting.) Typically, one starts by having a look around at what the artist has prepared for the visit. I may offer a short comment, usually positive, about a piece, if for no other reason than to put the artist at ease. Then I will say something along the lines of "Tell me what you were thinking when..." at which time the artist has the floor to give a rationale (or not) and provide me enough information to ask more pertinent, pointed questions.

I ask these questions not to point them in a direction to align with my point of view or interpretations I may have, but rather to allow them the space to think deeper about what they are doing, to hear themselves say things aloud, perhaps for the first time, and then roll it about on their tongue to see how it tastes as they say it. Yeah, therapy of sorts, no?

Back in the day, a popular theme among poker bloggers was how poker was a metaphor for life. Christ, this used to bother me to no end! While it may have been more a matter of my own issues than what I perceived as an exercise in triteness, the possibility of an element of truth might have been the greater bugaboo. The possibility of truth? How about a hard, cold one?

I have always thought the matter of luck in poker to be over-rated. Skill mattered; luck seemed comparatively irrelevant. I have even gone so far to proclaim I don't believe in luck, even though I surely have forgotten numerous instances in which I have been the recipient. Of course, I remember the bad luck hands more readily. Still, I suppose I'm enough of a sucker to believe that in the long run, skill, like hard work, is what really matters. Nothing wrong with that.

Away from the table the same thing should hold true, no? Hard work, skill, good and bad luck are at play in any given endeavor. For my friends whom I mentioned above, for myself, and for all of us, the mixture varies. And not to contradict myself, but I would say I've been pretty lucky. Not always, and there have been times when I didn't think I was graced in any manner of my liking, but like in poker, the long game is paying off, and as we know, not all of that is luck; nor is it all a matter of our own choosing.

I think this qualifies as a ramble, no? But like I said, it's been five weeks or so.

Rodeo II

I've ordered a battery charger for my Canon Rebel. You'd think they could standardize the chargers and batteries so I could use the one from my other Canon. You'd think.

Anyway, I figured I had about half a charge left on my battery and I'd use the thing until I got the low battery warning, shut it off and save that last little bit of charge for the uploading. The plan worked fine. I now only wish I had a faster lens for my camera. Last time I checked, the one I want is around $1500. Wish in one hand...

Still, I managed a couple decent shots I can share from the second night of the rodeo.

Photo rodeo

The rodeo is in town.

Well, the rodeo is always in town. Some of the cowboys and cowgirls travel a good distance but the organizers live here.

My barber is one of the head honchos and he was kind enough to provide me a wristband that gives me total access to all but the arena itself. Last night I availed myself and will do so again this evening.

If you're expecting a lot of action shots, I am sorry to disappoint. I took my smaller camera with me as my better camera is running low on its battery charge. The low battery wouldn't normally be a problem except it appears in my haste to clear my studio I have given my charger to a charity. I should have been more careful in the boxing of the old electronics. Still, there's some life left in it, so tonight I'll see if I can't get some good shots.

Before the sun went down, I did get this:

Otherwise, anything or anyone who was moving faster than two miles per hour ended up a blur after the sun went down. Hence, the people pics.

The Big Time

Two months from today I will be in Chicago. Seems like a long time if I don't think about how quickly the last two months have gone by. In that time I put together two exhibitions that had potential for my return to the Chicago art scene, both now in boxes destined for storage. I now have a third, and I'm feeling pretty good about it. Even so, who knows what will happen over the course of the upcoming month? And it will only be a month, for after that, I will have to print and frame photos, build shipping crates, and send the stuff off a couple weeks ahead of my arrival, all easy stuff compared to making and editing the art into a respectable show. So yeah, I'm preoccupied, and maybe more than usual.

Speaking of a respectable show, how about that Mojo?  Not bad for a guy who quit his day job. Of course, those of us who have followed him all of these years knew it was coming. I don't know if anyone has floated the idea by him that he is now a pro. Good on ya, Dave.

A walk around the place

I've pretty much given up on seeing a mallard hen with her ducklings on the pond this year. The frantic flyovers while quacking up a storm by both her and the drake last month told me something was amiss. Likely a skunk.

I thought about this loss last night when the wife called me on the intercom to tell me a pack of coyotes were yapping it up not fifty yards east of our bedroom window. Out by where the two turkey hens had their nests. I went upstairs and out the back door to give the canines hell. But they were already gone. No eyes shone back in the light of my flashlight.

The turkey hens were walking around the property this morning, so I'm going to hope we see some little ones pretty soon, provided there are still eggs. Yet, the big tom is still hanging around as well, fluffing himself up whenever he sees me, so if the nests are destroyed, there may be a second chance at a clutch (if that's what turkeys have).

And I would be remiss if I did not mention the Barn Owl. Except we cannot be certain there is a chick in the box. The wife says she may have seen a ball of down. If I have heard a soft squeak for food, it did not last long. All the better, a low profile, for there is a Great Horned hanging in the hood.

Meanwhile, I'm trapping a lot of gophers.

...for the trees

36 writes to wonder the fate of the tree in his mother's yard. This on the heels of thoughts for another post already in the making.

The local high school is about to receive a large bronze sculpture of their mascot, provided the private donations can be found. The bird will be making a sharp right turn, or so the drawing suggests. I would have to go upstairs to confirm the talons spread or tucked. A drive-by of the site other construction projects are planned for the summer break yet I don't believe there is a percentage for the arts in this community, as pragmatic bonds are tough enough to pass without prettying up the place. (I wonder if the local prisons have mascots, let alone art, and certainly more money is spent per capita for these institutions.)

But yes, the trees.

We've removed a number of trees from the property over the last couple of years. Mostly sour cherry, which need little encouraging beside the jays' penchant for their fruit. A few hawthorn of size, making sure to poison the stumps. And back when we first bought the place, three 70-foot big leaf maples we were assured were on their way out anyway. All have provided warmth during our winters.

So, as with the oak I mentioned last post, when I saw that the middle school had removed four large decorative plum tree from the front parkway, my first thought was sadness, followed by wondering what happened to the wood. Fruit wood is hard to split but burns well, you know.

And then my mind returned to that lone oak in the field, not so much it standing there against the sky and bare ground, but to the hundreds of Christmas trees that went up in smoke. I would not have to buy mulch this year. Nor would have anyone else in the neighborhood. Now, that would have been a fine gesture!

Still, efficient usage aside, I understand a strong emotional attachment to some trees. I have fond memories of an apple tree in my grandparents' front yard. It, along with a maple and cedar, long gone and, so I am told, replaced by renegade rose of sharons and weeds so high the front porch I painted in 2000 is hidden from the road. I have not been back to verify, and since an uncle still lives in what's left of the house (termites), my mother has forbade the trip.

Yes, things change.

On a brighter note, I cannot let a post go by without saying how absolutely overjoyed I am for Dave "Memphis Mojo" Smith for his third place finish in the WSOP seniors event. I made sure I bragged on him some at my home game last night. (No such showing for me, down $20 on the night.) Again, congrats, Dave!

Things change

One of my favorite sayings comes from Freud via Mari Ruti: "It is impossible to love life without loving transience." As with most noble sentiments, acknowledgment is easier than bringing action, yet aspiring is half the fun of the struggle.

Sometimes the consequences are largely sentimental. For instance, there is a field about 20 acres in size northwest of us that has for years been used for growing Christmas trees. It's not a very good field for such, evidenced by the gradual decline in the number of trees, even though no harvest has occurred. Earlier this spring, the remaining trees, along with the latest diseased fatalities were cut down, piled and burned. That is, all but one tree, a sizable oak and the only one of its kind in that field.

Word came over the fence that the field had been rented out to another farm of a family whose name is known throughout these part, and the three confirmed bachelors that still live with Mom would be putting in wheat. Gentle souls, these men, hard workers and known to lend a hand to widows and the like who choose to remain on their homesteads. They are well-loved and highly respected. (I may have written about them in the past; I cannot recall.)

I took interest in the field as it stood after the burns. I wondered at length about how they would go about removing the thousands of fir stumps.

Well, as it turned out, the stumps were left and gone over with a contraption behind a large tractor, which, I suppose, more or less mulched them back into the soil. I have no idea how far down into the ground this machine went, and did not stop to examine the work for those brothers were there dawn to dusk. I did not care for them to wonder why the gentleman ex-farmer would find it necessary to examine their work.

Still, I drove by daily to rubberneck, yet I never thought to see if what I had most feared had happened. With this in mind, I made a special trip. Yes, the oak was gone. Or rather, it now laid on its side up by the matriarch land owner's house. By the looks of it, it was unceremoniously dragged intact across a couple hundred yards of field, a quick dispatch so as to not delay the field prep any longer than necessary.

Judging by the amount of stacked firewood both alongside her house and in her garage, the elderly woman heats with wood, so I bear her no grudge. Nor do I the brothers. They farm a couple thousand acres and this tree was understandably insignificant. Still, as it has become clear to you by now, I had taken a liking to that tree.

At one time, most of the land around here was oak savannah, so I saw this tree as defiant in grace. There are still patches of its kin scattered about, enough that those fallen by disease, age or progress have heated my own home for the last eleven years.

In my complicity I am complacent. Still...

Say...

I'm taking a break from my usual routine today. It's been five weeks since my last confession...

What to say? Not much changes, and I suppose that is reason enough to not come back with tales of frogs, birds and weeds. Sprinkle in weekly trips to the city for art and medical stuff, meals, lawn mowing and such. Oh, and facecrack, naps and late night essay writing. (If you want to read my latest review.)

It's not that I'm bored as much as maybe boring, off in my little world as I am. And, believe it or not, things are pretty good.

Still, I have thought from time to time to log in with this alternate g-addy, which is a bit of a pain in the ass (and is why I don't comment on your blog posts) and tell you about the big home game in which I came home with five times the cash I went with. There was an interesting hand in which I utilized implied odds and left the looser mumbling into his cocktail. And another, O-8, for which the perfect river fell for a scoop. yet I would be remiss if I did not mention the game last week found me breaking even right before I packed it in for the night.

Otherwise, my priorities have been elsewhere.

Tomorrow is the wife's birthday and there is a little clay sculpture of our remaining dog drying. It will be presented unpainted, which means the sentiments in the cards will have to do double duty.

And speaking of sculpture, my exhibition in Chicago, while still four months away, takes up brain time. Knowing me, I will not have it fully planned out until a week or two beforehand, yet I am making some interesting photos and sculpture that give me hope for a show that will boggle some minds. Plus, I will be showing in one room while a dear friend will have the other space, and together we will make an even stronger statement. Yes, I'm excited.

The in-law situation is still fucked up as ever.  Can I share with you I've been going to Al-Anon in order to gain a better perspective? July will be a year, and it's working.

Well, I think that's about it for now.

Excuses

I've been holding my breath.

And, BTW, fog is rolling in, which is allowing me this moment when I am able to put aside "should" while other things "must wait" and "do."

Lots of nothing, it seems, but this is an illusion I perpetuate, for in truth, I've been somewhat busy. Not busy enough to stop dropping a note here, but I will beg one's forgiveness with an explanation: I'm only good for about 500 words a day, and that includes editing/rewrites. (And working on another.) I'm reading much more than that, retaining little, but, drip-drip, every little bit helps in the requisite need to be au currant.

The frogs are still at it (above link), the mallard hen is sitting on eggs, our old dog died and the blind adopted mutt thrives. A lot of weeds have either been killed or pushed back, and once this fog clears, more will perish.

Packing up the extraneous and redundant so that we might get this place on the market has slowed. No, strike that. Ground to a halt. No reason, really, which brings me back to the "should." Courage.

I have a story in me. Not much of one, mind you, as it involves a saloon with assorted characters, including tweakers and an attentive barmaid, plus an expensive jukebox. I just don't get out often, otherwise I'm sure I'd be somewhat inured. Hence, a difficult time mustering the tale.

I received word this morning that my show in Chicago this September is a go. A fellow on the east coast has requested photos of the field burns and flags to sell in his little shop. I've been sending out my poetry to friends. Near as I can tell, no heads or tails of it. Perhaps the world goes too fast nowadays for that form unless one can find a depression in the landscape in which it can settle. Thinking about sending some out if it turns out I have the wherewithal to continue writing it.

Poker? Played a little free PLO a week or so ago. Stupid hand sent me to bed nursing Thumper, so no.

Know that I'm still looking in on you folks as well.

And always more photos. Shooting at night with my phone and available light.

Three things

There was a home game last night. Same host for the past three years or so, Mike, so we figured. Ever since Randy gave up that favor to the group.

Long time readers may recall my concern the handwriting was on the wall when Randy's girlfriend moved in with him. yet, when she began to join us at the table and appeared interested in learning the game, those worries were eased. And in fact it was Randy, not her that ended it with his habit of retiring to the bedroom after getting felted. One buy-in and off to pout, leaving her to hang with his pals.

Pals. Randy comes to the new game on a regular basis. He walked in last night and I said "Hello." He looked at me but did not return the greeting. Something was different about him, but it wasn't necessarily his demeanor.

And, as is usual for randy, he had his phone out to play Solitaire during the game. After about a half hour of play, someone asked Randy about his work. That was when he informed the group he had been in bed with bronchitis for six weeks. No one had been aware of that fact.

His girlfriend is really a lovely, friendly person.

The game is usually held the second Friday of the month, but since this month that day was Valentine's Day, Mike had scheduled the game for the 7th. Except we had sixteen inches of snow on the ground, so he cancelled it. He called this Wednesday to recruit me for last night.

Mike was already drinking when the crew showed up. Something in a tall glass. About two hours into the game and another drink, I look up to see a .45 revolver holstered in front of him. And, oh yeah, I am sitting directly across from him.

Me: Hey, Mike, wanna put away the gun?

Mike: Make ya nervous?

Me: Yeah, it does. I have an uncle who was shot at a poker game.

Phil: He don't have on his glasses so you don't have to worry.

Steve (to my right): It comes out of the holster, I'm ducking under the table.

At this point the crew erupts in its go-to latent homosexual joking: Oh, going under the table? Look out Spot!

Me: If I thought I was gonna die, I think I might let him.

I doubled up.

Changeable

The snow's been gone some time now. The winds and rains have returned, squall after squall announced and sent on their way with a fit of sleet.

But to set up the shot, I have to return to the snow.

This is what I happened upon out back after worrying the night before about some of our prettier tress up front and taking action before a half inch of ice sealed off the sixteen inches of snow. 

One might wonder why I waited this long to post this. Embarrassment that with time turned to forgetfulness that turned worse to I thought I already had. 

A lot on my mind.

This morning I went out and bought a sawzall. 

 

Frank Gehry building in the making.

Yeah, I suppose I could have rented one but I'm thinking I might not start to feel better about things in general dismantling just one structure. 

But after the rain lets up a bit.

 

A couple things; maybe a few.

I have an essay up. I was as kind as I could be.

****

You know, if you discount art as self-expression and think the discussion of the same is a heap, then, yes, I suppose I would seem to be phony.

****

The snow is melting with the help of temps and a little rain. So far, so good as the creek and pond are holding their banks. But we had some snow, yessireebob. Not as much as others and we've already been down this road, so I'll skip ahead to the wife and I walking early in the morning three days ago.

We were out to hear the widow-makers drop in the woods across the street, and that they were. I saw a little bird under our smaller pines and cedars that I knew to be a Golden- 
crowned Kinglet, a bird that has held my interest for a good while (see below). It was in trouble. Yet, given that I'm pretty full inside regarding a dying animal inside, I had to shrug this one off and leave it to Nature. I left the wife listening while I went to make make my morning cup.

Noise at the back door that I know well by now: emotional distress. Yes, she held the bird, cupped in her gloved hands. We watched it die. I noted the "gold" was a mix of yellow and orange.

I waited a bit and then went to town. I returned with bird seed, suet and feeders.

So far, very few birds. But the snow is melting.

Four inches seems much smaller on the wing

my concentration broken by branches and numbers and markings

then find a name almost giving up after ten years this winter when

I hear again their sound that does not translate to paper a combination

of my insufficiency and no trees

or anything else in the air but

alongside the barn and fencerow close enough I’d not bother you

with the detail of walking the blind dog except to pull the leash tight

fix on a flit a loop to land at my feet yellow striped head wing bars

as if it had not noticed but for a still second we both were God

sought found lost except for found to call a reminder not right

away for other duties but time to time back to the house

and for more than ID maybe the last on a list except

those that seldom leave the woods

or the task at hand unaddressed truth be told via simple digression

a scope easier generalized longstanding issue recounted

perceived wrongs the way seasons collide doubling back

on the friction turned on its side nonetheless suction enough

to stay outside for the dog’s too damn happy nose and ears

were I certain of its blindness to let it wander off leash

past the porch the house to the road and keep walking

or tell it to stay and hope it doesn’t follow best conditional

in either case the bird supposes a better course for both

Lord knows

I’ve tried about half the time otherwise none harder than what

comes my way even for follow through sufficient criteria

for a sense of self than knowing a name to put on a list

making notation easier than I let on and on so says

the crunch of bricks in the chimney

windows doors dishes laundry books

and walls a house accordingly responsible to what

one says aloud so I keep the bird’s name to myself

and unleash the dog

It's the humidity

Be careful what you wish for. Well, I'm not quite that superstitious and do remember last year similar dire warnings followed in short order by alleviation.

And now we're sitting tight with sixteen inches of snow and a half-inch of ice on top, just to scare the dogs when they take a step and collapse of hoop house. (I'll be renting a saws-all and calling the scrapper.) I knocked the snow out of trees I wished to keep as they are last night before the ice. For some, namely the yews, the ice was enough. They may spring back.

But were not out of the woods quite yet. Tomorrow the temps rise and the rains start. Depending on which comes first in earnest, we may get a bit of flooding as we did two years ago, a once-in-twenty-five years kind of an event.

At least we haven't lost power.

Yet.

I have gotten out and about between rounds of shoveling, this morning, in fact. The roads weren't the best but the big parking lots had been plowed a bit, making for them big mounds of wet, dirty snow. Perfect, I would say, for folks who don't see much of this white stuff but have some ideas about fun.

A poem to hide behind

Well, I've been busy:

watching the bipolar's doublewide
halved, plastic-wrapped and pulled out
of the woods barely clearing the gate,
no idea how long we haven't and therefore
where she or the comers and goers;
waiting for the fog to clear for rain
and snow on the peak given that name;
acres of downed and burned Christmas trees
and wondering why, so shapely,
perhaps past some prime in the business;
ten more acres up the road burned unaided;

the birds: the meme of murmuring
I guessed by two weeks, the sky full
of geese, pulled north but for rest,
hesitant, only if the rest; a pair of wrens;
three pairs of mallards shopped the pond
so we shall repeat the tamest of the lot
and suspect a day or two of photo op;
frog too, readying a go at it and just in time
as the wife has bought a new clock radio
with white noise options and battery back-up;
and they say it's about to turn cold again.

Walking the dog in the fog

 

A thousand words