Condensate

I get this drip, from the overhang of the second roof onto the first, that is not without a certain rhythm. Irregular enough that there isn't a specific pattern but regular enough to catch my attention. As if you had scored a piece of music that relied on the random call of bullfrogs. I put an empty pickle bucket on the back deck, to harvest water, and think that's a good use of my time: five gallons of water is not a joke, it weighs forty pounds, carry that up a hill. I get testy, when anyone calls my aptitude into question I do what I do pretty well. Not perfect, but you'd be hard pressed to find someone who could do it better. I actually have an address book with the names of people who do specific things better than me. I'm not the best at anything, no matter how hard I try, but I limp along. Wallow in self-pity long enough, and you might find something on the other side. Something non-standard, that fits. Maybe a tattoo, or some minor scarification. Just prove that you love me. I've been there, I don't want to go there again. I'd rather be alone forever. Just saying. I'll leave this to tomorrow, where it rightly resolves. I'm pretty sure the drip means something. Back to sleep. A dream about maps, then awakened by the light at around eight (I know by the pattern of light, there isn't a clock in my bedroom), dress warmly in layers with the fleece bathrobe on top, and mutter around, making coffee and breakfast. Soon I have the sofa covered in periodicals and books. I use the reading glasses for dictionaries and my small-print 11th Britannica and they give me a headache. Several new perfumes, little sample vials, arrived in the mail yesterday; so I stretched out on the floor on my mummy bag with a damp warm cloth over my eyes, and smelled them. 'Odalisque' is wonderful, floral and briny, in the dry down: like where the wild roses grow close to the bay on Cape Cod. I have a bare scant amount of 'Dzing!' left, which breaks my heart. I need to stop at that perfume warehouse in North Carolina (I think) that Turin talks about. Maybe I could find a bottle. Join a 'Super Bowl' party. Never again vote on anything, voting is bullshit, it's all manipulated, money buys position; stance, however awkward, reveals information. Have you ever worn a bow-tie? I gave up white shirts when I realized my life was going to be dirty, I can't afford the dry-cleaning and I don't bathe often enough to completely eliminate that ring around my collar. It's a dirty world. My shoes are a testament. I scrape several pounds of mud off, on the back stoop, and ditch them, just inside the back door, for a pair of slippers. Fuck a bunch of muddy shoes.