Bowling Alone (2)

Also, when you think about it, severe pleasure is best enjoyed later, when you have time to reflect. When you're actually attempting a scree slope that requires moving like a goat, or hanging on to a outcrop of rock that seems not quite secure. I always trust you know what I mean, even when I don't. Something as simple as filling an ice-cube tray, for instance. Rotten rock is the bane of my existence. If you don't have running water, how do you do that? Consider ice, consider fog, consider that vapor that rises from the pond. Usually it only gets a couple of feet, before it falls back to its liquid state; but, occasionally, it forms brief clouds. Like fairies, these are impossible to photograph. I like my writing self, as a construct, couldn't have said it better. You and those constraints, I assume its going OK, for you, I have to assume something, a place to start. Suddenly it's five in the morning and I have to consider that other world, where labor is converted into dollars, my job, right? what I do, install shows, scrape shit off the floors. Nixon bowled alone. Who could not, if you always had an open lane. Slept in, got to work an hour late. There was a tour group, all black kids, maybe problem kids. Watched a movie, went through all the galleries, then over to the Cirque for some tumbling. When they were leaving the teacher (or whoever) told me I'd better check the men's room. Sure enough. Someone, by accident or design, had shat or smeared shit all over the place. By the time I finished cleaning and disinfecting, it was, oh joy, time to go to lunch, for which I no longer had any appetite. Big supply order to put away. I hit one more lick on the basement hallway, and called it good enough. After work I went over to the pub alone, for a pint, and I was almost the only person there; so Barb sat with me, at the bar, and we chatted, then John came over. They were at an Irish Festival in Dublin, Ohio, this past weekend, especially to hear a band they've booked for the pub. They want me to hear them, John says they're great, and John's a pretty good musician himself. Maybe I will. My calendar only exists as an idea, I'm sure I'd be free that evening. There's an argument that I should get out more often, but I don't pay any attention. I'm comfortable, skirting edges. It's a way of life, neither good nor bad, just a code of conduct. Signs figure heavily in the background, you see them everywhere, they actually seem to run your life. Where you can't park.