Thinking, Later

The cook's tour. The janitor's perspective. Look at the physical plant. Is the arrangement adequate for actual needs? Is there sufficient natural light to keep from losing a finger when chopping onions? Consider access. A knotted rope to throw out the window, a flashlight in every room. Check the reception: kill the main breaker and sit at the exact aural center, is there still a signal? Where is it coming from? Which direction do you naturally lean? If you got shed of everything you didn't need, what would be left? Would there be enough? Do you care what anyone thinks of you? Who would you even try to impress? If some of the answers are no, you might consider a cave. Plato has one, where the shadows loom large, and there's always the tree-tip pit that might do in a pinch. Camus was correct, about that first step, the first decision, after that, things get easier, one foot in front of the other. It's dawn on the ridge and everything is saturated. The mist rises as fog, smoke from the hill-tops; the humidity is tangible and smells of the earth. Soul-searching. Where do I belong? This place or another. I consider hundreds of options. Dawn, after too little sleep is like that, make a double espresso and a tomato sandwich, lightly toasted multi-grain bread, with a thin layer of pate on one side and mayo on the other, great pink tomato, and a slice of sweet onion, salt and pepper. I resolve to eat one of these sandwiches every day until there are no more vine ripened tomatoes. It's messy, and I need to eat over the sink, but my god. Need to get some thick-sliced baloney, so I can fry a slice, make it a more than complete meal, rapture. If I lived in town I could walk below the flood wall daily, collect shit I might assemble into another show. I don't like living on the ridge with someone I don't speak to. It's counter-productive and I don't have time for that. I imagine various futures, some of them more attractive than others. I want to work at the museum as long as possible, I love the job, but eventually I'm just an old guy, living in a rented room, on Social Security, with a shopping cart and a gimp leg. At least I'm not suicidal and a mess that someone else would have to clean up. Little Sister is another story, she has a strangulated intestine hanging out her ass, and this is where we part company. I'll shoot her in the back of the head when she's eating something really good, you'd probably say I should get a vet to operate. I have a hernia, for god's sake, and I can't afford the operation. Little do I care about a fucking dog. I've killed so many dogs, it's a pastime really, actually pulling the trigger. I'm concerned about you, you don't seem to know how to hide.