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.