Acceptable Tolerances

Starting with a substrate that is neither square nor level, you fit the new to the old with care and a great many shims. It's a challenge to make things look decent. The criteria is, generally, what will suit the client: for the most part walking up and down on the earth is merely business. But at a certain point you have to please yourself. I've always known people who were very good at what they did, and I always watch them closely. The deftness with which they wield a chisel; the stroke they use, applying a final coat of plaster; that surprising flip of the mop-head when they change direction. Three things constitute a list. You give the list a name and you have a file. I'm jaded by the company I've kept. All things being equal you'd think the result would be the same, but it never is. What you get is all over the board. Assuming it was a game. Walking in, carrying a heavy pack, my sense of humor is reduced to a slight chuckle, when I get to the top of the hill I breathe a sigh of relief. When I'm on the ridge, and in form, I feel like I'm ready for anything. A good night, writing and editing. Went into the museum today, nominally a day off, to help D trim the finished wall sections: two small walls (40 inches and 18 inches) and the exposed end. Tricky trim. We try and cut things a little long then trim them a skosh bit (First usage 1952, from the Japanese Sukoshi), a word every carpenter I've ever known uses frequently. It's always accompanied by the 'bit'. So, as mentioned, there are no drawn plans, we are essentially building from a sketch, and we work hard at it all day. The joints are all good, miters that we pre-glue and shoot together, then slide on. Everything goes together unbelievably well, and when we finish, just after four o'clock, we almost hug each other. It's a stunning piece of work, or, as D and I are fond of saying, almost perfect. We just stand there and look at it, call TR over from the front desk, he's impressed, wants one in his house. Then we build the bench, which couldn't be done until all this other had been accomplished. Five legs that are 2x12 framing stock, covered on the exposed sides with cherry plywood and faced with solid cherry stock; the whole thing is 131 inches long and we make it a skosh bit short so we can fit it into place without marring the walls. The top is two layers of glued and screwed three-quarter-inch plywood, and we'll rim the outside edge with a cherry trim-board to contain the cushioned units (a piece of Baltic Birch plywood, a piece of foam, and whatever fabric Sara decides) and there you have what we think the sketch was saying. I'd rather have it this way, because I've learned to never trust drawings. Fucking architects, they rarely know what they're talking about; for one thing, they've never built a house. Better they should just give a competent craftsman the task. If you can find a competent craftsman. Last time I looked, very few people could do anything. Another heavy pack, because I was out of juice, and liquids are the bane of my existence. Next year I'll lay in a case of tinned juice; I like canned pink grapefruit juice, it reminds me of a chardonnay aged in steel, that metallic edge. The last two weeks, D and I have walked several flights of stairs hundreds of times, and I'm tired; I want to sleep in and listen to the radio, read a book, soak my feet in Epson salts, but I have to be into work on Monday, another day off, because Sara will be back and want to get to her office, and I need to talk with her, about the way the board is taking control. I begin to see that everyone on the board has a vested interest. I'd really rather never have anything to do with this, but I don't like it, and have to speak my piece. D knows more about this building than anyone, so if you're doing something to the building, you need to consult him. If you don't, you're a fool.