Friday, May 12, 2017

As Cool As Somebody Else's Cucumber

The factory has gone to a four day week for the summer.  I must learn how not to squander my time off.  But I will.  I am a squanderer.  Squandering will be my legacy.  If there were a Hall of Fame. . . etc.

I have written and deleted realizing that it was just talking, nothing more, the sound of my own voice complaining a succor to me, perhaps, but noise, really.  Just that.  A summer's ennui is coming, I know.  I will try to stave it off with meals and books and travel, but the black ass will surely hit me sooner or later.  There will be a dissatisfaction with what I consider my existence, and there will be financial danger that will send me reeling.  The big cost in the south is summer when all the flaws are revealed.  Summer is more than symbolic here.  The danger and violence are existential.  I am attempting to prepare now, an effort to save myself the worst of it.

The repairman was here.  I am insulating the attic and cutting some sixty vents in the eves to compliment the ridge vent on the roof.  I will have the house wiring updated before having insulation blown into the walls, and I will have some windows replaced as well.  There are a few more giant limbs to be cut, and there is some gardening to take care of.  I will take as many trips as possible.

I will try to keep my composure.  I'll be one cool cucumber.

And I'll be dead-ass broke.  Or worse.

But. . . hope against hope. . . maybe I'll find something to photograph.  Something that pleases my limited sensibility.


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