Late

I'm listening to the blues. Then Clapton, "Layla", almost more than I can stand. Where the piano kicks in, the guitar over the top. Listen. Nothing prepares you for the real world. Bitch as you must. Hendrix. The wind whispers, somewhere the queen is sweeping. Dwayne. Dicky Betts. Then a weird solo. A squeeze box. Finally get back to sleep, awake at dawn. The last two days have been seriously funny, Sara back and everyone really enjoying their job at the museum. Took down the High School art show, stripped hardware, patched and filled. That narrow window when artichokes are cheapest and I buy a couple; a large one, with a hunk of bread, is a complete meal for me. I love them. Tonight's I'm having with a garlic mayo, a touch of horseradish, tomorrow just melted butter. I've made paper from the leaves, strong fibers that are easy to separate from the organic matter. With okra too, very easy paper to make; it's all about the fiber. The Vatican used papyrus until well into the 15th century, vellum was always a luxury, why it was so often palimpsest. Because of the line squalls we decide Sunday would be best for yard work, I'll pick Jacob up in town, so he doesn't have to get lost, take him back Monday. Probably won't write Sunday night, but I'll have a better fire-break. Rain, thunder, I'd better Save. Lost power, it never fails, and if the relay doesn't work, someone has to physically go to the sub-station, so it's either one minute or one hour. I lose power so often I know the drill. There may be a connection to the countless dead modems. If so, fine, modems are cheap, now that I can install them internally, $20, small price to pay. I've fried two hard drives and seven modems, two printers; the TV and the microwave have been dead for months. Electronics don't like being on the fringes of the grid. Summer time, I can't write in the afternoon because of brown-outs. I got a battery thing but it's dead too. I need to buy a new one, a UPS, but I'll have to wait until cash flow changes next January, no more child support, and they probably have to give me a small raise at the museum because I seem to be important. Smoke and mirrors, mostly, but I can hang a show. I seem to be good at other things that I don't actually think about. I relay information really well, evidently; I keep a tight focus on what's happening where, because I need to prepare and clean up after. I focus on the task at hand. It's difficult to gross me out, I've dealt with so much shit, there's a learning curve, you know, you learn to deal with things. Break out the Floor Prince and clean the mess. Those drops of oil, in the back hallway, no problem, but I don't know what they are, I sniff them but nothing is revealed. I think it's olive oil, the Main Street ladies sweeping in through the back door. I just don't want anyone to stumble and fall, I mop in a pattern because it pleases me, no other reason. Fuck your story, anything you can do, I could do better. Arrogant bastard, yes I am. I have to be careful, and I'm good at being careful, I cover my ass whenever I can. What you see is only the tip of the ice-berg.