poking the fire

Dearest John, Maybe I just needed a little change of scenery. So I've lit a fire in the fireplace and am sitting on an old jacket on the floor next to the radio, journal on my lap. (It's gonna burn so bright - set this heart on fire.) The jacket is because the floor is cold, floorboards that D painstakingly restored original to this 1885 house. Pine planks. Southern pine? I have no idea. But I feel that I am sitting on the floor of trees that came up, were growing at the time of the first Revolutionary War. I like that thought - growth, renewal, recycling, restoration, reuse.

Now is an ad for Custom Forest Products, that builds to suit using local wood.

Now there's a song about massacre. I read once that in the 19th century and before there were so many birds in Pelham Bay that the sky was dark with them but that birdshooting on the part of the interlopers went on on such a manic scale that the birds dropped and soon enough the skies were cleared. Why this mania for destruction - the "triumph of human will over nature" as the NYT crowed about the blasting of Hell Gate's crags in 1851, and has basically been crowing ever since.

Earlier, Watching the Detectives. Now, I've got my eyes on you, I'm watching every move.

Ow. Word.

I'm looking for the someone I love. You're not here, and I care. Kisses, my dearest love.