Monday found the burnsite safely…done, and the early part of the day gray
but not for long, not for ever. A week with rituals of early walks, porch breakfasts, garden tasks,
annoying radio [“Dawht Cawhm” being the least of it – rather endearing, actually; is it that Our Great Leader is really such an infantile nincompoop or have I been utterly brainwashed by the liberal left’s insidious propaganda?], watercolors, an obsessively belated reading of “American
Gods”, unseasonable warmth and “Underneath all, the Land”, on top of which reside
L. Fleming’s sculptures. One day one ventured to Parker to see Twitso’s bridgeworks,
one of which led onto the Wilde Isle of Ducks, inaccessible for years and followed
by lunch, of course.
We also have our own puny efforts to contemplate
from the ganglia to the grave, most likely.
Then that last “lonely” night…and oh, who nose…my nose knew to tickle ‘n’ run into the wee
weewee hours of Friday resulting in a morn queasy at best before a last walk around the ponds
[not shown], breakfast on porch, out the county road to the highway, the highway to the p.o.,
the zoned zombie pavement south into winterlight
and so west on the interstate with a stop at Eagle Lakes to converse with our soldier in Texas about his studies as well as The Nincompoop’s Parade while making the Rudiments
of Lunch before pounding on down and across the Friday Valley to California
…warm and cozy and out, first night, to one of those typical Dinners on First that woulda been good if not exactly a bargain anywhere else at twenty dollars less. Well, that’s Benissha fer ya, and if the people will pay and think they’re having a good time well…maybe they are.
We had a goodish time too, the food ‘n’ all being goodish…not, maybe, ninety bucks goodish, but none of us are in Brooklyn anymore, Dorothy, so get used to it.
Morning arrived mildly sunny for walks with curious shadows, time to take care of biz
and discover, coming up First in the after of noon, a fine little early fifties sedan delivery of the
Chevrolet persuasion, a sort of vehicle I’ve always, despite having had panels [’41 Dodge; ’48 International; ’48 Ford] and station wagons [’59 Plymouth “Suburban”; ’56 Ford; ’59 Edsel; ’64 Plymouth “Belvedere” with 440 and fourspeed], coveted, albeit more the late forties version, and a little less orange*. Anyway, pretty cute, and welcome to California in the Springtime
where a guy can unwrap their ’45 Chevy after close to three winter months
and have it fire right up…350 Chevy, alright!
*[A more reddish orange…]
“Featured image” = “Little Owyhee Painting”, 12×14″, ca. 2006 [?]