Burning Wrack

I keep coming across pieces of the show that I specifically remember, where they were, what they were doing. A few pieces I pulled from the burn pile because they are just too interesting: the forked stick with the elastic waist band from a pair of underwear that looks like a giant slingshot, a small piece of unknown wood that is completely peppered with small holes of unknown origin, a contoured slab that is so polished it looks like ceramic or metal. So far. I think I'll hang them high on the front wall, above the three sets of patio doors that comprise the front wall. Paid a thousand dollars for all of them and 6 Pella windows at Ohio Builder's Surplus. Most of their stuff, I think, slips away from large construction sites. Cash means no tax if the boss is there. It's how I built my (unfinished) house for $25,000, including 2 grand for the cookstove, and another grand for the composting toilet, 19 dollars a square foot; my first cabin cost $4200, 13 dollars a square foot, which I built in the driveway of a rental house, took apart, ferried to the island (another 2 dollars a foot in Ferry charges (Bill Of Lading); never really knew how much I spent on the Colorado place. The house in Missip cost around $20,000 to build. Out buildings I've often built for free. In Missip I tied down a bunch of uniform young pines, let them grow for a couple of years tied, then harvested them for a wonderful bowed roof on a shed. Indigenous architecture is an interesting thing, dictated by need, cost, and local materials. I stop and admire tobacco barns. Around here there's one on every farm, and the ones that are taken care of are lovely things, representi, the most usable space for the money. Often think about remodeling one as a house, converting function. In Colorado I always wanted to convert a potato house into a home. They were lovely and weird, a kind of dug-out, half underground, with a dirt roof over vigas and planks. Would need some skylights and a couple of dirt dormer windows. Adobe clay is wonderful stuff, protected from the weather, will last just short of forever. These potato store-rooms were usually built into a slight slope, and drained, outside, with a simple ditch. No moisture to speak of, so no problem. One of those here would dissolve in a couple of years; I walked through some, out there, that were a hundred years old. Those original Mormons were great, not to say the modern ones aren't, I don't have an opinion about that, it's one of those things I don't think about, but they settled Paradox Valley because they saw that if they could irrigate this loess, they could grow anything. What you can to grow, is what you can hold back. In my private practice, fuck me, in their private practice, if you could hold your product for six months, it would be worth a whole lot more. New shoes for everybody. A chicken in every pot. So these Mormons, not up to Roman Aqueducts, construct a wooden trough, and I still don't understand their method of attachment, they hung it on a sandstone wall. I might do it one way, but I could be wrong. I often am. I bat maybe .250, but I'm a great fielder. Had a great arm. I lost interest in sports when the coaches became histrionic. I can't stand that shit, someone telling me what I can and can't do. I have my own agenda. Since I was quite young. I've always occupied my own space, as far back as I can remember, evidently it makes me hard to live with. Currently I live alone. It's the easiest solution. I go with easy more often now, that might be a change.