Cosmetic

As in superficial attempt to cover something: road repairs destined for failure, painting rotten wood, apologizing when you don't mean it, sweeping the dirt you tracked into a corner, taping broken glass, the mercy fuck before you dump him. Speaking of road repair, an interesting failure on Mackletree. Late winter they repaired some serious holes (on the one hill I must go up to get out) with a mixture of gravel and hot tar, but the hole was cold and the patch didn't adhere, in the freeze-thaw cycle it pretty much worked out of its hole and disintegrated. The entire lower slope is a field of pea-gravel. Worse than Ice. Way to work this morning, I stopped at the lake, with tidbits for the geese; there are tables set out, here and there, with those charcoal grills mounted on pipes set in concrete. They're being used, again, and three crows were on three different grills, pecking at the charred matter. All animals, it seems, eat a little charcoal when they can; and this was particularly good charcoal, with some food value, being made from red meat and mysterious hot dogs. Arguing aesthetics with a friend who sails, exchanging comments on pulleys. He wanted a new set of straight grain teak for the blocks, I told him he was an idiot, that there was nothing better than American Elm because you can't split it; his fucking teak, the first time it's under a massive load, heaving-down tackles in careening, he'd want something like elm, or a hornbeam crotch. He thought I was being excessive. At Graduate Janitor School, in Finland, the local staff kept a nice wooden Bark, they sailed in any weather when the ice wasn't too thick. I made the mistake of going out with them a few times. Lord god, I've never been so sick, the candle sconces in gimbals, when the wind blew the hardest, would pivot so far the candles would char the bulkhead. Great way to spend your half-day off. Their pulley blocks were all burls, they'd never had one fail. Consider whaling ships and the heaving, the pressures at play. The pleasures at bay. Lunch at the pub, and it started slow, then a couple of groups came in, a bunch more singles and doubles, the place was busy, suddenly. Tommie and Dr. John came up behind us, I had lent her these three CD's to copy, because of the dulcimer, Farina and Mimi, and just as she's starting to say something, my favorite bar-maid knocks a glass of water, 16 ounces of water and ice, spilled in my lap. It's not a big deal, just water, I understand these things, accidents, I'm a janitor. I call for a towel, blot my crotch and laugh, better me than someone else. Imagine if I was a banker in a suit, how awkward it would be, but I'm not: just another Joe needing to air-dry after a mishap.