Boxes Moving

This many boxes, you fold them and screw them all together, there's a certain amount of torque that's locked in, and moisture plays a part. They move. First thing every morning, I tinker with them, realigning. When the dog awakes me at 4 in the morning, I develop a theory that if you had enough cardboard boxes and a typewriter, you could write all of Faulkner. Specious, of course, and derivative, but I toy with the idea. A coon in the night, Little Sister goes nuts. I restrain her, so the coon can get away, and end up with fleas. Not good. I can deal with fleas, set my flea trap, but I'm fully awake, and I wanted more pure sleep, dreamless and deep, but that's denied me. Decide I should go night-fishing for a world-record catfish. Chicken guts as bait, a deep-sea rod, with 80 pound test, a stump as seat, and a piece of PVC as rod-holder, a simple sport. You drink beer and wait for the rod to dip. If you're alone, you talk to yourself, if you're with someone else you talk about missed opportunities. Sad, but true. Maybe not even sad, the reflection of the moon on the river, darting clouds, the occasional train in Kentucky, a cold Bud Light from the cooler, life might not get better than this: slapping at skeeters, the middle of the night, watching a string of barges push up stream. Perfection is a difficult concept, even drawing a straight line is almost impossible when the surface is uneven, because the nail or screw enters at a different angle. Doesn't seem right that a straight line could be a relative concept, but hanging the photos on a textured wall, I found it to be true. Each of the pieces hangs on two screws that catch the top of the back of the frame, a superior system when confronted with things exactly the same, better than wires, which are always different and stretch. I draw the best line I can, then punch a starter hole with an ice-pick. Small adjustments are made by tapping the screw-heads up or down with a hammer. This is art, not science. I did sleep another couple of hours and then was late for work because I started writing this. I need to get out more, or not. Anthony and I agreed to a beer after work. Made labels for the photos and mounted them. Cleaned corners most of the afternoon. There was actually a course in corners at Janitor College, everyone hated the teacher, Benzek Quitzal, because we couldn't understand a word he said, it was as if he talked Cyrillic. Meaning, intention, all that, and then the fact that we just couldn't understand what he was saying. We didn't even know what might be on the test. A double pluperfect for your pleasure. I was nudging my roommate for a clue, all I got was a blank nod. Make what you will.