Wasted Trip

Whatever I did yesterday, started hanging the photographs, some trouble-shooting, moved a few things around, there was a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, from listening to adults talk like children. I just wanted to get home. Checked the list, to make sure I didn't need anything critical, and I didn't, so a light pack walking in. I walked up the hill because of the mud at the top. Thinking in terms of cross-section, the only place the clay layer is exposed is at the top of the hill; there are 100 small dump truck loads of fill anchoring everything else, but at the very top you have to cut through the substrate. The awful clay is exposed, which eats gravel and is easily damaged. I navigate that on foot, I have a way around, and I know I'm only a couple of hundred yards from home, so I'm a happy camper, maybe click my heels, leaning heavily on a mop handle I trust. Something is wrong, though, too quiet, the electricity is off, no fridge, no light when I flip the switch. I might usually go back to town, but I don't want the bother, temps are supposed to be right at freezing, so I bring my mummy bag downstairs and start a fire, fuck a bunch of discomfort. Today I finished hanging the photographs, made and applied the labels, cleaned up that mess that you make when you drill into drywall. Top of my form, really, what you see. I'm essentially a janitor, which aligns perfectly with my projection of what I might be, though someone else might have expected something more. I don't know, make what you will.

Tom

I don't know, you start leaving out everything, and pretty soon there's nothing, which doesn't work for me, actually.