We Could

Funny conversation with D today, we were coming back from getting the metal roofing, his truck, me riding shotgun, and there were three or four things being discussed, a kind of shotgun approach to communication. One thing we were talking about was trimming the purlins on the shed, but the talk was veering into the Wrack Show, because we had gone below the floodwall, I needed to put his mind to rest on the availability of certain sticks, had shown him one of the two main areas where wrack collects, not sure about the mechanics involved, which we were also discussing. He said -we could...- and I said -I know.- and that was the end of it. From that (a great Skip title) exchange, I knew that he meant that when we stopped at the museum, to get my truck, and pick up the hammer-drill, which he needed to set some window jams in concrete, we should also get the cordless mini-skill-saw because it would be perfect for trimming the purlins. Not an object exchanged, but we both knew what we were talking about. We work so well together because we understand what the other is going to say, often we don't even bother saying anything. This drives other people crazy, which drives me crazy, because it's what I expect. If I'm wiring the shop with B and I need a certain screwdriver, I assume he'll hand to me before I ask for it, like a surgery nurse in the operating suite. I assume that level of understanding. What I most enjoy is when the next move is anticipated. I'm a great helper, easy to work with, because I anticipate. It's not a big deal, if you're the helper, you spend a lot of time standing around, watching, and after a few cycles you know what's needed next. Kim is bricking the Carage and I wish I was there, I could be his hoddy, I can mix mortar, I can carry bricks, I only don't know how to lay them. As Skip is the best writer I know, Kim is the very best layer of bricks, self-taught, fucking auto-didacts always cloud the stew. Why am I burdened with all of these people who are so fucking good at what they do? I got a pizza and a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock on the way home. D wanted to nail the roofing down but I wanted to talk about the Wrack Show, so we talked, I wanted to see if we thought the same way about what we were going to do. Everyone's conception of what's going on is different, nothing is ever the same, you know what I mean, but D and I seemed to be close: there's this poplar burl that's going to be a wall-hanging in the show, and it's leaning against the print-shop, I tell D we have to install this show before it rots, and we're both picking at the burl, peeling off the bark, exposing amazing grain, maybe you had to have been there, but it was a magic moment. We talked about the show, then we talked about it again; what we're looking for, we agree, is merely a stunning installation, we agree we can do that, just let the materials speak. So much is made, incorrectly, of our ability to intercede, we can do nothing, our claim to fame, like various small monkeys. Never put all your assets in a tea cup. I won't go further than that. My main interest is feet, from the ankle down, I'm interested in footings with a sidebar on high-heels and the definition of certain muscles, I'm not dead yet. There's this young lady who smokes, and we see her, because we smoke to, and she presents rearward, and her rearward is a thing I might have talked about. Killer thighs.