Hmmm. It's been slightly over twenty four hours since I posted about finding a human bone in a field and no one has left a comment to the effect of "Oh my, Mr. Node. Human bones, you say? What's the tantalizing backstory?" You'd think you'd get a spasm of interest or stomach-gripping anxiety (human bones, people!) but no. I guess you all went out and bought that Archer Prewitt album I recommended, and now you're sliding down into a pool of melted mellowness right now on those smooth Prewitt stylings. The only conclusion I can come to is that my audience is a crew of jaded hipsterites nonchalantly shucking the human bone reference from the shells of their psyches. "Oh yeah," they say, sneering at their friends' record collections, "human bones. I suppose that's unusual".

It also occurs to me that, given my elliptic-to-cryptic style and penchant for pouring hooey into the autobiography, you may have thought that I was just making it up. Well I wasn't. I was examining a genuine human bone, right next to a genuine cat skull, and the field of frozen soybeans couldn't have been more actual. Even the little pile of airplane wreckage was there. In the interest of full disclosure, I assumed the coroner, and I omitted the dead tree charred by jet fuel, the rotting footbridge in the middle distance and that staple of bucolic scenes, the gradually collapsing barn. Also missing: the gully formed by the impact of the jet, the trespassing relatives of the victims and my cameraman.

Have a dandy weekend.