Well, so far at least, that was a better weekend than the last one - no surprise hallucinogens and only the usual spirals of depression and vague senses of loss, foolishness, and disconnection. The hike was nice. It's been so long since I did any hiking in any amount of substantial snow; I was surprised by how hard it was!  (That is what she said?) It felt like every step required so much more work, but the woods were beautiful and completely frozen. I've often thought (and articulated here) that it's so worth while going out into the woods during odd weather - you get to see such a rare, secret side of the place. It was cold, but I also felt like my gear was good, and my waterproofing stayed on my boots for the most part. I think I need to re-oil them the next time I go over to Jay and Ali's. (And steal their boot oil.) 

I visited the graveyard and poured out some champagne for Not Dead But Sleeping. Because the gravestone is broken, I can't even tell if it's a man or a woman's grave, but the death date is 1884. I think that most of the national forest around Falls Hollow must have been a farm at some point. The cemetery is family-sized and on the other side of the river, parallel to the area with the graves, there are a series of low stone walls that seem to be made in the same fashion as the cemetery wall. They stretch out for a long while, so maybe they were for holding livestock or something. I wonder if there is a house foundation somewhere. Thinking about it reminds me of going back into the national forest in my professor's truck in college and him showing me the old home sites, drinking dark beers and digging up antebellum bulbs. I still have the orange mountain lilies in my side yard from those trips. 

Speaking of homesteads, I feel in a weird limbo with the house stuff. I asked the landlords about buying and they are considering it. They said they don't normally sell rental properties, but they would at least think about it because of the history with the house. (Perhaps, also, ah, the thousands of dollars of landscaping I've put in...) Waiting on a decision of this magnitude is such a new and fresh way to experience anxiety! I mean, I know even if they text right now and say "yes let's do it" there's still 10,000 ways this could all fall through or not come together. I know there's a ton that needs to be done on this place too, so even if they say no it might be a good thing... or at least, save trouble when an inevitable sinkhole opens up and destroys the place. But I love this little house. The ghosts like me. The light is so good. I failed to kill myself in this house, and failed to die when the house itself seemed to be conspiring to kill me. I love my stupid morning glory and the porch swing, remembering times I sat there and drank a brown ale, pushing on the railing with my socked foot to make it swing. 

It's also been hard not to daydream about stuff I've always wanted to do, like turning the cat brothel in the backyard into an actual greenhouse and hangout space, or re-building the porch, or so many other things that didn't seem to be worth the effort just renting. 

Oh well. Such sandcastles in the air.