Reluctantly rolling out of bed, chilled feet are delighted to find slippers in an increasingly familiar spot. Wood gently creaks under foot and there is a steady patter of rain on tin. Crossing the small living room out to the porch, I’m joined by Boni and her I’ve-had-a-long-life tits. We fetch some wood together. The fire roars in the wood-burning stove, strong coffee brews on the old but firm German stove.
Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, with Mack and the gang floating beyond the grasp of the industrial revolution’s promises, compliments this new and incredibly cozy situation we’ve found for ourselves. My gaze drifts to the window and out over the green expanse littered with sheep and cows. I think of the sleeping volcano that keeps watch over the lake just beyond the hills. It’s an obvious metaphor for the past month; a right-moment’s peace, so real you can hold it, a view so calm you almost forget that chaos preceded, and a volatile unpredictability is yet to unfold.
