iCabin

Last night I thought, there really is no one here.

It felt so meaningful to me that I wrote it twice: there really is no one here.

And then I wrote, I can't believe I'm here.

It's revolutionary to be alone in a cabin in Wyoming, the least populous state in the country, wondering what to make for dinner.

I made dinner – a portobello mushroom and sliced onions sautéed in olive oil, Kerrygold butter, Chablis, and pepper .

But first I had a drink. Irish whiskey with a slice of lime.

The lime was the worst lime in the history of the world. Not only did my big German hunting knife have a hard time cutting it, but once cut there was not one drop of juice in the lime. The line was a green rock disguised as a lime, so I drink the whiskey straight.

About this time, I donned earbuds and listened to Aaron Neville on my iPhone. Night was falling as it always falls in upstate Wyoming, slowly and mostly in colors befitting a red state.

When it was dark I started reading out loud, just to hear the sound of my voice. Since I was reading Gertrude Stein's The Making of Americans, my voice sounded very good to me. Stein is one of the very few writers I can think of who cause me to think properly when I'm reading, which is not the case with so many other writers.

It was time to make dinner. They say it's not easy to cook for one, but then I so rarely cook for two that it's as easy for me to cook for one as it is for two.

After dinner, I walked out of the cabin. It was dark, I mean dark, and silent, I mean silent. I could see every star in the sky, even the new ones no one else had ever seen.

When I woke this morning this morning's already really cold. I just now took a picture of it from the loft window.