Signs

A good day. Got all the trash together and hauled away, cleaned the bathrooms for Pegi's "Winterscape" performances, cleaned the theater. D set me up so I can write from the museum. Took a few more things into town, in case I get stuck there, brought a few more things home, in case I get stuck here. Covering the spread. Went back to the library because I had already read the book I checked out, didn't realize it until I'd read the first few pages. The lesson is to always read the first few pages before you check it out or know that you want to read it again. If I want to read it again I usually own a copy. Books and manuscripts are attracted to me, stick around, papers collect in piles. A piece of paper stuck to me today, when I was walking to the post office. Came from the furniture store next door. Packing instructions, or unpacking instructions. International symbols, no words. One guy, plus sign, another guy, and under that line (of text) was another, that showed the two guys, one on each end, lifting a rectangular object. Side bar, just had the thought that I write here in Arial 10 point and I didn't notice what font and size the extra machine at the museum wrote in, so maybe a change of face. Shouldn't matter, but I'm used to seeing my thoughts emerge in Arial 10. I could change the setting but probably won't because I have a bad history of changing settings on computers. Inept in regards to most modern technology. I'm good with a hatchet or a froe. Odd that I write in a sans serif type when the fact is I much prefer old style serifed types. Would the style or substance of what I say be altered by a change of face? Yes, I think, but I'm not sure why I think that. These paragraphs are ephemeral enough without thinking they would be affected by serifs, but because they are so ephemeral, they would be. I'd probably speak with a Scottish accent, or some voice that was impossibly Italian. Types I've known and loved. Forms that have stuck with me. Writing in blocks of text, with a jagged right margin, just letting the line wrap wherever it wants to, has always appealed to me; writing single-spaced, so that a density was built-up, and the referents could build a terminal mass. Event horizon, where string theory predicts many different universes might have been born. Where did the mass for the Big Bang come from? In a very real way, we're only two questions away from infinity, sometimes just one. Rain, changing over to snow, temps dropping sometime Sunday; noon, they're saying for Athens, which is a good bit east. There's a play, a Christmas spoof, at the pub, Saturday night, I'd like to see. I might just stay over. I don't drink and drive anymore. Down pallet on the floor. Fuck a bunch of risk. I'd rather sleep in your front yard under a sprinkler than slam into a bridge abutment. The first installment of the "Night Watchman" begins tomorrow night, I can hardly wait. The trailers are vague, but the narrative seems solid. You're always in, or about to be in, the curl. It might be beach volleyball, sing Misty for me, or pouring cast iron; the important thing is being alive in the moment. Our hero, Frank Short-Pants, might argue, but he's an idiot really, soon to be excised from the gene pool. He died in that odd incident where a manatee took a man with tanks to be a mate. Still strikes me as funny. What we see. I was sure the manatee knew more than she was saying. In the old days, we just took a witness downstairs, beat them with a rubber hose, made them see what we needed them to see. Now, there are so many constraints.