Roof Line

B wants me to look at the intersecting roofs of the old farmhouse he bought down the way. I might have some ideas. I'm blessed with the ability to see the way a load is carried. It's just a gift, I know nothing, mathematically, about how the stress is dispersed, but I can see it. When a big wind hits my house, I see it in color, and certain attachments are highlighted in red. I over-build as a matter of course. What you don't see can only help. For instance, where the pony-beam that is exposed in my house, dies into the outside wall, you see nothing, the beam merely dies into the wall. Actually, there are eight 2x6's that form a pocket for the beam, inside the wall. It's really clever and handsome, the beam dying into the wall, but there's a lot involved, that you don't see. It's the nature of things. Most everything is hidden. I told B that I wasn't going anywhere, the planets are so rarely aligned; that I felt it was my duty to listen and watch. When the power comes back on, my computer always says "Please Wait". The pickle buckets are full; I decanted several gallons of drinking water, and filled the pot I use for shaving and washing my hair. The next time I'm this plush in water it'll be melted snow. Waiting for a phone call from my sister about Mom's ongoing heart problems and I finally realize that my phone is not working. I start a small fire in the cook stove, venting the heat directly, just to heat water. I need to do a few dishes, clean up and shave. B walked over and I told him we might have to wait to do the walk-through of his new/old house. Generally speaking, roofs in older houses tend to be under-engineered. The ridge beam itself is usually under-sized. A single 2x8, for instance, if the rafters are 2x8's, because you can through-nail into the adjacent rafters, despite the fact that a toe-nail is much stronger than a through nail. Bad judgement based on faulty information. I built several houses in Colorado with large hips, and I was always amazed at how stout the main hip-rafter needed to be: in one instance, for a span of twenty four feet, it needed to be a doubled 4x14 laminated beam. A monster that required a crane and many anxious moments. There was even a required bolting pattern. I knew my building inspector very well, in Colorado, Greg Pink, and since I was usually building in almost inaccessible places, he would often ask me to just photograph what I'd done, so he could give his stamp of approval without having to actually visit the site. This ham and bean soup is one of the best ever, and I revive a Johnny-Cake I remember from my youth, nothing more than a cornmeal pancake, but hot, and slathered with butter, one of the great treats the world has to offer. Memory is such an odd thing, inspired by smell or sound; what actually happened is subject to revue, but not the gut perception. Clearly, she was out of bounds, the referee was obviously just looking at her ass, and who could fault him? she had a great ass. Still, some rules must apply. What are the bounds and what is out. I had a great conversation with a lesbian friend at the pub recently, and she argued, convincingly, that sexuality had nothing to do with spirituality. She's a fairly devout Catholic, which is difficult for me to wrap my head around, I've always had a problem with faith; and she believes there is a god, and that the local priest, somehow, is a conduit to the pope, with his funny slippers and hat. First thing I'd do, if I was pope, Tom the XLII, is lose the accoutrements. I'd wear jeans and a denim shirt, fuck a bunch of convention. I'd be a good Pope, or Supreme Court Justice, I'd actually listen to the argument. What I notice anymore, is that no one has a clue. Still no phone. I almost walked out and drove to town to call my sister, but there's no point in it, a phone call from me wouldn't matter, and I've been drinking since the first phone call, thinking about life and death. I shouldn't drive. B argued that I should get a satellite link and just buy a lap-top. Wouldn't cost much more than AOL, MCI, and Frontier combined, and it would probably be more dependable, certainly faster. Not that I care that much about speed, I actually prefer moving slowly. The immediate reward is that you tend to notice things. I was walking an old logging road today, thinking about death and heart-break, and there's been so much rain, recently, that I was soaked through, after just a couple of hundred yards. It was warm, though, and it didn't matter that I was wet. I have a stump, on the point, where the last slope dies down into Upper Twin Creek. It's a nice place to sit and roll a smoke. I have a foam pad, to keep my ass from getting wet, and I have a wee dram in my flask.This is not a bad place to be. I usually exhale, blow my spirits away, then smell the place where I find myself. But there was this huge web, six feet across, perfect in every detail, even down to the beads of light, glinting at the edge of my attention, right in front of me. It's beautiful, and I'm lost in a reverie. It's just a spider web, but nonetheless, it seems to be a considered construct. Everything, in nature, is considered. I need to run into town, later today or tomorrow, cream for my coffee, juice, and the makings for shrimp fried rice, maybe a ten pound pack. On Cape Cod, this time of year, always alone, I'd usually walk down through Crow Pasture to where Quivet Creek discharged into Cape Cod Bay. A lovely marsh, where I had seeded oysters and mussels on public estuaries that were, essentially, private, because no one else knew they were there. Ten minutes work for a sea-food stew. Where the creek cut into the bay I could always catch something, a striped bass, or a bluefish, or a cod, using a clam for bait. I had a 'Beginner's Rod And Reel" kit that folded into almost nothing, and I carried it everywhere; mostly, in those days, I ate sea-food, it was free. Even the bait was free. I grew potatoes and shallots, I had a bed of watercress; I ate cat-tails and mushrooms that were questionable, but I lived from the sea. It's one of the things you miss, moving inland, that briny smell, and the sure sense that you could simply dissolve into various salts. Lucretius. Or Thoreau, or Prost, maybe. Anymore I just look for connection. I would I were a weaver.