Nanny Goat

Milk is no longer a problem. This past summer, I had to stack stones around in such a way as they make a little trap, a little safety-deposit box in the shallow pool on the bank of the stream. I could then keep the little milk bottles in that trap and the cool water gently running in between and over the top of the stones would keep the milk cold. That was fine. But now, I've stolen a goat.
So, it's on basically.

This goat is a new machine to figure. I don't know what she doesn't eat. She's tried a bit of everything--grass, leaves, tank top hanging on a low branch.

Nanny goats are cute, for sure for sure, but they stink like all hell.
Have you smelled one? They're fine until it rains. Then... good lord.
Wet dogs have nothing on a goat in nature.

She is presently tied up to a far tree, still shouting distance from the boxcar, but not smelling distance. She is obscene.
She is worse than a baby too. Crying and crying. If this persists, there may be too much resentment for goat milk.

Bath, NC

I've boarded the flight. It will be partly cloudy in New York, as usual. I am in the habit of taking note of when I'm about to physically or metaphorically fly into tumult. Give me only positive thoughts of little Jasmine when the layers of control and safety become friable, as they are surely about to.

In the airport, I saw an advertisement for a lifestyle in Bath, NC. Houses for sale. "Live in BATH!" Indeed. What a romantic idea--living in Bath. Have me bathed in the Atlantic, in the Pamlico, in my childhood, in my real self, in my thinking and too-aware inner child, in my untouched inner self, the one that cannot be bathed. Scrub her, educate her, tame her hair but it's always the same. Huck Finn in Bath, new and modernized Bath, is still Huck Finn.

This motherfucking boxcar

Is a fucking bastard to keep clean. I have a broom but since I sit on the side of a dirt road, it's an all-day fucking cycle of just basically stirring dust up and then watching it settle.