Completely Hidden

Miles Davis, "Bitches Brew", on the radio at three AM, puts a decided kink in the day. I get back to sleep, but weird dreams pace the rest of the night. Library doesn't open until 10, so I heat water and take a sponge-bath, shave, read for a while, Xenophon's "Anabasis". Fix a hearty breakfast, grits, eggs, toast and a sliced tomato. Need to do laundry, a residency starting at the museum and I'd like to check in there, and I wanted to talk with Pegi, to make sure we're on the same page. Linda had some concerns about the Emily Project, and I agree with them; if we were to do something, the main problem is slowing down the words. Miles gives me an idea. Words, not sung, but spoken, with music. I wish I was a playwright, but I'm a simple janitor. Makes life difficult. Nothing could ever be 'completely' hidden, another myth you have to smash through. Not unlike those pumpkins, what you thought you meant. I prefer to stand in the shadow, never really knowing. A pulley on one of the puppet dolls is snagged. Too much space between the actual sheave and the housing, and the cable keeps jumping out of the groove. I see what needs to be done, but I can't figure out exactly how to do it. That's not quite right. The problem is clearly that the pulley is affixed at too much of an angle, the attachment slightly incorrect. The museum is closed and I elect to ignore the issue until tomorrow, which gives me a chance to think about three or four solutions and decide among them. A mental diversion, visualizing the mechanics, the stress that comes to bear at a specific place. I'm very good at this, well trained; failure analysis is mostly a matter of visualization. After some thought, I decide to alter the angle by twisting the attachment and holding it in place with a piece of baling wire, which I should be able to torque into position with a pair of pliers. Not a lot of weight involved here. Next problem. To our credit, D's young son wails on the down-haul, puts his whole body into it, and everything works fine; the ultimate test of a system is a young person throwing their entire body weight against a particular attachment. I'm not superstitious, but you'd be a fool to ignore the way certain things feather. Reality pales. My phone's out, those dead trees on Mackletree, this could go on for years, so many trees poised to fall, I need a better connection, but what I have is a tenuous contact with someone I don't know. Reconcile that. I write, you read, it's not brain surgery, but there is always that element of surprise. Jesus, it's tomorrow already. Like that. Blind-sided. It's already tomorrow morning and I wasn't done with last night. I have this monolog that plays in my head, it seems to be real time, in so far as, but in point of fact, the time line is altered by the very remembering. Always one step behind. Especially out here, where the flat opens out to the flat. I'm trapped here, from where I can't send. Go figure.