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.

More days…

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 [?]