Foiled

Didn't accomplish anything that I set out to do today. Wanted to clean out the trap for the basement classroom sink, dressed accordingly, got a bucket, and cleared everything out of the cabinet. There's so little pitch to the drain pipe, that it stays full of water, and the water stinks, so the last person to fix the trap had glued everything together. Traps are gasket fittings. Pushing, the nature of things and because you're going to need to take them apart eventually. Before I tear the whole assembly apart, I want to try a small drain snake, and Chris, next door at the bar, says he has one but he'll have to find it. He never did find it. I'll buy one next Tuesday. Cannot find the piece of track I need for the light test strip, and they don't make it anymore. I'm going to need to rob a piece from somewhere, so I started looking around. It has to be the end of a run that is not the powered end. Thinking about Sargent, there was a Sargent book out, in the museum library, and I took the occasion to front out all of the books. For the life of me, I can't understand why people push them back. I front books at the public library, for god's sake, when I'm picking something out. I wish we had put a camera, as part of our new surveillance system, in the library, because this has been a mystery to me for a long time. Pushing books back, what a concept. Driving home, and I remembered this happens every year, watching the Black Swallowtail butterflies congregate, on a mud-puddle, or in a field of Queen Anne's Lace, which they feed on, and wondering what they're thinking; I'm more or less a dufus, but I do then ask some questions, about your eating habits, certain characteristic moves. I have to go, fucking squall-line moving through.