Sunday, October 24, 2004

The fog is dense this morning. It was thinning when I took hay to the llamas, and I was able to snap a couple of pictures of some frosted hedge-rose leaves. Now it's back, and the world out there is muted and darker. Hard rain all Friday night that turned to snow Saturday morning and kept the power out half the day. No blogging to be done yesterday! I kept the fires going in both stoves and cooked both breakfast and supper on the Goddess. Wood-fueled cookstove cooking turns out to be extremely easy and satisfying. You know the hot spots and how the surface cools to medium and simmer here and there. You're sliding pans around, sometimes lifting off an iron plate completely to put a skillet directly over the flames for high-heat stir-fry. I've been collecting cast-iron pans my whole life and now I finally know why. Bacon and eggs yesterday morning, with bread toasted right on the stove top. Fried potatoes with chorizo last night, with refried beans, green salsa, and sliced tomatoes. I rarely eat such stuff, so I felt free to let loose with the animal fats for a day. It always seems the thing to do when the power goes out. My friend crossed through the raging creek in his pickup to spend the day here (he brought the fresh homemade chorizo). We took a short walk in the snow and then spent the day reading. He started out paging randomly through a Spanish dictionary and continued to a Field Guide to the Atmosphere (we'd been discussing clouds). I picked through the Collected Prose of Robert Lowell I'd just received in the mail, and read a few pages on curanderismo in Woman Who Glows in the Dark. But as usual we ended up burrowing through poetry anthologies and sharing new discoveries. Such as this old one, from Anthony Hecht: The End of the Weekend A dying firelight slides along the quirt Of the cast-iron cowboy where he leans Against my father's books. The lariat Whirls into darkness. My girl, in skin-tight jeans, Fingers a page of Captain Marryat, Inviting insolent shadows to her shirt. We rise together to the second floor. Outside across the lake, an endless wind Whips at the headstones of the dead and wails In the trees for all who have and have not sinned. She rubs against me and I feel her nails. Although we are alone, I lock the door. The eventual shapes of all our formless prayers, This dark, this cabin of loose imaginings, Wind, lake, lip, everything awaits The slow unloosening of her underthings. And then the noise. Something is dropped. It grates Against the attic beams. I climb the stairs, Armed with a belt. A long magnesium strip Of moonlight from the dormer cuts a path Among the shattered skeletons of mice. A great black presence beats its wings in wrath. Above the boneyard burn its golden eyes. Some small grey fur is pulsing in its grip. *** The new fires have not yet bitten through the morning chill. I sip my tepid coffee (it doesn't stay hot long), buried among the comforters: Apple, Piff, Ted; Sally also asked and was permitted to climb atop the morning quilts. But even a Sunday must begin, so I'll climb out now and drag on my thermals and wool and go out to find the rhythms of this foggy day. 10:34:45 AM    comment []