Late night, sitting behind the desk at Monster Halloween - Minnesota, off the clock, listening to Ali Farka Toure's Savane. Some albums simply resonate. Toure, no longer with us, was a blues man from Mali, Africa, inspired by John Lee Hooker. When he first heard JLH, Toure said, "This is not American, this is African." Savane is genius, the work of an older man in full possession of himself. I think I will never grow tired of listening to this album. Several songs are in the House rotation. I would like to place them all, but I'm aware that much of the music I play is a stretch for people to listen to. Staff seem to be growing more comfortable with it. It was playing today, when I returned from my 36 hours outside.
On my sacred harvest I met three young men picking high bush cranberry. One of the men, Nathaniel, said he had been kicked out of Minneapolis parks several times for picking berries. Something about damaging the flora. All the more reason to pick them, I said. I mentioned the statue of the jackbooted aristocrat in bronze, across from us, and the obtuse, almost incomprehensible translation on the back of the base, a slander of the Sacred Feminine. Nice to see three strong young men picking berries. I'm not sure any of them give a damn about Halloween, but I invited them to the store anyway.
I opened a savings account this morning. My banker, Lori, was limping, because she got hit by a car while riding her motorcycle. Evidently, she ended up under the car. She's not sure how. She is also 57 years old, she rides horses, and she has a license to conceal and carry. I told her my story about the repeating firearm monster I'm building. She loves guns but she agreed, toy guns should not be made. We also pondered: why do squirrels not get out of the way of motorcycles or bicycles? We have both ridden over one.
The savings account was not really a savings account, but something less than, not even worthy of mention on their website. It is for those of us who have, for whatever reason, fallen into financial disfavor. The account entitles the Credit Union to 5% of all payroll checks cashed (personal checks are not accepted). That, or the check is deposited and the money is held for seven days. I am in this purgatory because US Bank filed a judgment against me, because I would not pay the $788 dollars in fees they charged against my $80 worth of overdrafts. Lori once worked at US Bank, but quit because she was berated and written-up by a manager, for helping a Somali woman open a checking account. It was the finest, most pleasurable meeting with a banker I have ever had.
I met with Brant Kingman. He has an impressive studio. He will be coming by this Wednesday, with a bronze winged goddess in the tradition of Nike, some fine fabric from the old Guthrie Theatre, live plants and hopefully, a bushel of phragmitees, a tall slender water grass with a fluffy white seed head. For the shrine to the Goddess, in the Boodoir.
I made wine with my niece. She picked the grapes with me, and did the stomping. Three gallons. I was expecting twelve. I'm inclined to think someone stole most of what was growing on my sister's fence, though her neighbor Robert, a good man, does not agree. I'm sure there was much more there, only a month ago. Bad medicine, that, if someone did steal my grapes. "Dark magic come back three times." Stolen or not, I'll have half the wine I made last year. That is what I get for wasting two gallons of last year's supply.
Sitting in my off-the-grid house night after night, after the woman I dedicated myself to told me to go away, I kept sampling, out of the 6.5 gallon, glass carboy, into a quart mason jar. Too much oxygen in the carboy and the wine went bad. A sadness. I'll never know how the wine would have matured.
Sweet berries this year. A nice balance of rain and sun. Not necessarily good for wine grapes. How the wine will taste I won't know for months, but it will have a high alcohol content.
I asked my niece to help, though she is only seven. I want her to have a sense of the rhythms of the Earth. In October I'll bring her to my house and we'll dig potatoes.
The woman I mentioned brought me the orange afro yesterday. I brought it in tonight, to the staff meeting. Donned it and danced around the store. I love that wig. Though tonight, I felt a sense of hostility, mixed in with the joy. Joy, because I love that wig and the confidence I have wearing it. Hostility, because I spent time with her and that was not very joyous.
I told a member of the staff, several days ago, about a man I know who goes into an emotional funk until Thursday, if the professional football team he worships loses on Sunday. I told her that I don't mourn that long for the loss of a relationship. What a lot of bullshit that turned out to be.
A new week, here at Monster Halloween - Minnesota. Much to be done. Booking talent, hiring new staff, addressing issues with the current staff, refining the store, finishing the Boodoir, building the monster. On less hours. Maybe a full weekend off this coming weekend.
I think I would like to go on a date. Which may be the first time in 37 years I have uttered that statement. We'll see.