Jesus. The more I work with the new Canon G10, the more I’m learning to love it. I think we’re going to make some beautiful music together.
About eight inches of snow here topped with a lovely crust of ice, with more freezing rain on the the way. What the week will look like is anyone’s guess. But for the moment, we’re enjoying being inside. I’m cleaning up my office (an unnatural disaster), taking breaks to play some slow, aching blues on Red, the Strat. Deb’s making Christmas cookies, only some of which will escape the house alive. R.E.M. is cranked through our massive, old speakers, the bass shaking the house(there is great joy in huge cones that can remind you of where all your fillings are), and the parrot is singing along. The dog is hiding.
In less than a month, Bush will be history. Which is where he belongs.
Out the windows, finches, juncos, chickadees, and bushtits are covering the feeders.
I think I’m gonna survive 2008 after all. As long as the food holds out.
rain on evergreens.
trying to start the fire, more and more newspaper, burning, curling faces of politicians, until the kindling finally catches. still wearing your coat until the cabin begins to warm. light a pipe with a heavy, cherry-flavored tobacco. pour a glass of brandy. put on some slow, sad Brahms, shut off the light. watching chill rain, waiting on snow. the feeling coming back to your hands and feet. wet boots steaming before the fireplace. alone. relieved you’re alone, but also wishing someone was there. the fit never quite right. here on top of a mountain, thinking of the city, and, if in the city, dreaming of the mountain. never able to be just where you are. waiting for something to possess you, an outside event or idea. ever hanging. forever standing on your toes. and then suddenly, through the fogged window: snow in circles, rush of silence. weight of the brandy, pulling down into cushions. smell or burning pine. skillets on the walls. books. fishing tackle. phone, unplugged. desk with writing tablets, pens. no computers.
rising heavily, feeling the brandy vertigo come and pass, and opening the door to the soft hiss of snow, already filling in your footprints. no need to lock the door, closing it softly, and feeling the forest move around you. a slow-turning vortex of dark green memory. turning, turning, with all the faces past, the lost moments, ghost memories or piercing lost opportunties.
write something. save yourself from yourself.