Justified

Fustian and fraudulent. Just felt like saying that. A charge I often level at myself. The truck is at Dave's, thank god. D met me there and drove me into town. I bought him lunch and a beer, Anthony arrived from Cincy, I read Updike's non-fiction. Joined Anthony for a beer and Irish at the pub. The ridge was nice, so different. Antithetical, therefore almost the same. A wave and a particle. I have some supplies and I can walk to Kroger. I stand to be painting walls all week, so I brought a ratty shirt from home. Shepherd's Pie for lunch, a serving so large it also serves as dinner. I meant to do some work on the back hall ceiling, but I just read all day. Looking at a week of painting, I thought to just take the day off. Statistics don't apply to individuals but logistics do. Trying to figure the reverse order, when we'll need what crates. A problem in three-space. I see in three-space very well. Often been a problem for me, that I assume others do also, which isn't the case, in my experience. When I'm doodling a house design, a favorite recreation, I'm seeing the structure in three dimensions, sometimes four, in every particular, every joint and piece of hardware. This is a learned thing, I think, but maybe not. Maybe there's a proclivity toward seeing things in too much detail. I'd blame that on my grandfather, my mother's side, my namesake, Tom. A mule trader, literally, and a piece of work. He projected a series of trades in three-space, always came out ahead. As good a test as any. Judging is a mined field, mine-field, mine field, which one do I mean? I spend a fair amount of time thinking about specific word choice, and another large period of time thinking about punctuation. Fucking commas are the bane of my existence. It's not unusual for me to add and subtract a comma, for what, like thirty minutes. Periods are somewhat easier, looking for closure. Commas string you on. I've written a few sentences that were longer than 42 lines single-spaced, which is what I consider a page, so I'm familiar with the format. I can't believe you'd imagine I'd believe any of that hokum, under which everything extra is banished; what you don't need, and then you're left with a quilt of your identity. A pastiche of this and that. The household gods screaming for this or that. Me, Janus, at the portal. A new mop-head, the Fantail Loop, and I wonder if that will be enough. These voices in my head.