Plain Speak

Things are relative. Open to interpretation. Seventeen years ago I was doing some work on Thomas Jefferson's father's house. At the time, my bullshit detector was fine-tuned. I was in pain, and uncomfortable, and my living conditions were deplorable; I had to translate what I was doing into a very basic clear language. My survival probably wasn't in doubt, but it seemed like it was. I couldn't talk to other people, and I was eating mostly road-kill and rice. Truth be known, I was pretty fucked up, but I wanted to do a good job, because this was Peter Jefferson's house, and history matters. So I'd stay up, late at night, trying to say what I had done. I had running water there, and a deep tub, and I could wash my troubles away. Borders on sentimental, but I got in the habit of trying to say exactly what I had done. Reality trumps fantasy every time. Blow, wind, blow. Doctor John. The world on a string, sitting on a rainbow. I came to a agreement with myself: I'd just try to be honest. Not unlike where I find myself today. Trees stripped bare of their leaves. Another winter. Buckle up. Meetings all day at the museum and I got roped into attending one, a confab about the upcoming 200 year anniversary of Portsmouth. A couple of the events are at the museum and I'm Facilities Manager. Very boring, and their planning is quite disorganized. Then the bosses all took a late lunch and suddenly the day was over. Another month of the days getting shorter and I'm already driving home in the glooming. The Janitor's Nightmare is coming up, a High School show opening, and a lot of these kids don't eat well, so they load up on the sweets, drink soda, and throw-up in the bathrooms. The girls leave early Friday, after Thanksgiving, Samara and Scott actually have a show in Denver that night; and then on that Sunday I'm doing a reading at the lodge in the state forest. A lovely place, all posts and beams and very nice lodge furniture. Comfortable venue. A weird ruckus last night. I'd set out four mouse traps, the old break-their-neck snap kind, because the field mice are moving indoors. I was sleeping on the sofa, so I could stoke the fire, and about three in the morning I was awakened by the din of some small animal running around in circles. It was a Flying Squirrel with a mouse-trap on it's foot. I never did catch it, so it's probably dying somewhere in my house right now. When I was thirty I could have caught a Flying Squirrel that was trailing a mouse-trap. Now I don't even try. I'll find it by smell in a couple of days.