Being Arvid

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 21:08:15 -0400

At precisely 5:22 I sit down to a soft-boiled egg and a piece of toast. I only use real butter. I have a glass of water from the spring that runs out of the ground behind my house. The limestone that filters it can be detected in its taste and texture. It is a delicious way to start my morning with water from my own spring and a perfectly (soft) boiled egg. I have a pair of egg sheers with which I snip the top from my egg (brown) and then having cut my toast into four equal strips I dip it into the golden yolk and eat it quietly. Often the cat, Armagnac will begin to wend his way about my feet at this time to remind me that the leftovers are his. His tail is a satellite with it's own independent programming. His purr the signal that it follows. When I have finished the yolk I will have one maybe two bites of the white and then peel the rest for Army.

After breaking my fast I clean the dishes and then head upstairs to do the same for myself. The mornings here are quiet until the birds rise and begin to gather in competitive song. At this time of year the windows are open and the breeze, such as there is, curls over the sill to die somewhere beneath my bed. As I enter my room I see simultaneously into the bathroom and out the window. The tree and the old white marble came here at about the same time both having arrived when Lincoln was president. I enter the white world of the bathroom, hexagonal tiles cold beneath my feet have worn slightly in front of the sink and I search for the position that fits the ball of my foot perfectly as I brush my teeth. I run the water in the shower, cool but not cold and step in. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain." I think. But as always Army has run in at the sound of water and perched on the rim alternately watching me and cleaning himself. He has no interest in the birds until I shut the water off and climb out. After a quick drink down by the drain he jumps into the narrow window and perches beneath the pebbled glass that has started to glow with intimations of morning. I return to the sink and shave, comb my hair and then turn to the mirror on the back of the door.

There in naked glory stands Arvid. This body has become a means of conveyance: it carries around a world of associations and instances. Still it is relatively healthy and I am in no hurry to exchange it for what may come next. The skin is not as supple as it once was but it is still soft and tender. It is lean but slightly soft in the stomach, just barely though and the bow of my groin is still visible arching down ready to nock the arrow at it's base. This too is in fine function and still slightly swollen from it's attention in the shower. Being conscious of it, I feel the swing as I walk back into the bedroom.

I dress for the day and although I won't leave the house until this afternoon I put on a pair of seersucker pants and a white polo shirt to wear downtown. Army lands now on the bed and when I'm dressed I rub his belly until his back claws come up to press my arm away from him and then I scratch around his ears and under his chin. The ever present purring becomes louder and he rolls until he feels the pull of gravity at the edge of the bed. I scan the room, the bed is made, my good watch is on the dresser for later, hand to wrist-theres the everyday watch. I head downstairs.

I pass back through the kitchen and out onto the enclosed porch. It was once just a landing and a stair but someone alive at the same time as Teddy Roosevelt enclosed it. The floor pitches overly much for an interior room but served nicely, I am sure, when it was open to the elements. I open a door in a row of beadboard cabinets and take out a hat. I then sit on the bench and slip on a pair of boat shoes for the back yard. On the way out the door I grab two glass milk jugs, one in either hand.

On the way to the spring I will pass the orchard and the berry patch. Peaches have recently ripened and shortly some will begin to fall. The tiny bees that pollinated this spring will be replaced by larger ones hovering over the sweet suicides that will litter the ground. There will be few of these as I pick as many as I can for preserves and send several bushels to the food bank. The berries have come and gone and now reside in my basement freezer like victims of a mass berry murder. Dark thoughts, Arvid but humorous. Such thoughts always make me think of onyx.

Ahead is the beginning of the tree line and the small creek formed by the spring. I set the jugs down and pick up an old enamel cup that rests upside down on a rock near the source of the spring. I hold the cup beneath the water as it trickles out of the rock and marvel, as always, at the splashing water's reminder that the embrace of Mother Earth is cold. I slake my thirst and fill the first of the jugs. Full light approaches but it is still cool and dim here amongst the branches. I'll fill the other jug and head up towards the house.

Arvid Ackleheimer's Open Salon Blog

Being Arvid