I am trying to remember what happened this week. For me Friday has been
the day to drop a thoughtful note on BP.
Monday... on Monday I promised that I would give some information on a
rigging project to Duffy Hoffman (or was it Tuesday) and before I could
do that I had to crunch a bunch of numbers like FICA & FUTA in order to
project a newly reorganized rate scale. I've been trying to drop
overhead like dead wood. I keep thinking about the winter we lived in a
yurt and sh*t in the woods and cut dead wood to heat the place. That was
low overhead. I made $2,257.36 one year, a few years after the yurt. I
forgot to file taxes that year. When I get my SS statement there is a
gap. I was into self-sufficiency and not talking, much. Well, number
crunching away in the makeshift office in the basement, two saw horses
and a sheet of plyood for a desk, and Kathy turned on the dishwasher
which blew the circuit and shut down the computer. Darkness in a wet
basement. I had not saved anything. Still have not got back to that
point in my development. We purchase a flatbed trailer to pull behind
the Subaru. We promise the seller that we will not drive to Georgia
without registering it.
Tuesday... life in the basement is really weird with the sump pump
malfunctioning in the background and water bubbling up through the
concrete floor in small holes where yellow sand is brought up in small
mounds on the gray paint at locations that I could have sworn I had
filled and patched two years ago. The previous owner of the house
excavated the basement under the house. He was a short guy and only
excavated enough for him and his likewise short wife. When the two of
them stood side by side they did not get any taller. I'm still trying to
figure out what he knew about concrete floors. I dread to know what book
he got his bright ideas from - Audel? As promised we have not, in all of
our 12 years dug any holes where they buried their dog. The little
office on main street Mastic beach for PreCon LogStrat is a former Camp
Upton troop bungalow. After WW2 the US Army sold off the bungalows and
enterprising people (like the local cobbler whom we are renting from)
bought them up and moved them to each side of the street and instantly
there was a downtown Mastic Beach. Viola! Since then somewhat more
substantial buildings have filled in and vacated and filled in and
vacated. So we got our electrical hook-up and our phone. But no internet
broadband. We get a license plate for the trailer and actually enjoy our
sojourn at the DMV. I call my brother in Houston and tell him that
Keyspan Energy trucks are powered by Natural Gas. (Our childhood
imaginary company, Gas & Epileptic, a Far to Fit.)
Wednesday... the sump pump is psychotic, like some of my friends, and
decides to suck when it wants, or not wants, regardless of the increased
level of water in the basement. Kathy tells me that she is mad at Sears
along about in here for not coming up with the clothes dryer that she
ordered. I'm beginning to feel like I am forgot in the boonies then I
get cheered up by my unpsychotic friends who send me all kinds of
supportive notes of encouragement. My mother's card reader says
everything is going to be all right and I believe her and my mother
despite the fact that they go to the horse track together. It is raining
outside and we begin to remobilize and move everything to the "new"
office. The toilet at central command is broken, it has a big hole in
the tank and looks like someone was mad at it before they vacated. The
fact that the toilet leans into the wall and that the ceiling is too low
either bodes that nobody will be taking long breaks from work, or we
have to rebuild the floor before someone falls through. For the interim
we drive back to the house. Command central for the most part is dry but
we cannot get the multi-tasking HP thingy we just spent too much money
acquiring to receive a fax. David goes and helps Kathy get the new dryer
but it needs a 220 cable hook-up.
Thursday... we return to the scene of our extended crime in Brooklyn and
find ourselves accosted for conspiracy to freedom. It seems the fact
that we took our computer and one other computer without asking
permission is seen as proof that we are bad people. We argue, we calm
down, we fart around, I turn in all my credit cards -- but take back the
gas card, and we leave, David and I go down to Baptist Temple where
Debcaves has pulled off a really amazing super-triple excellent
temporary stabilization of the main tower w/ our primo buddy Sam McCoy.
If you want to see a tension structure in pure form go look at the
netting on the tower. Sam is supposed to be finishing up his Masters in
Math and damned if he is not the best probe technician I have seen in a
long time. Major talent, both. This is a temporary netting job to brag
about -- keep in mind, some of our most enduring work is temporary. Off
to Harlem to view the last remaining penguin of four that wants to go to
Switzerland. We like the concrete penguin at the fountain of the Harlem
Houses though why it is sniffing it's wing pit we are not quite sure. I
love working in Harlem and as we drive through I show David various
locations where his mother and I used to work during out 2.5 year stint
at three bus depots. We drive from Harlem south, way south, to St. Marks
and there we meet the guy that was responsible for the restoration of
the flame on the Statue of Liberty and we get ourselves sucked into
another worthy cause, we hope. I see, and the president, the flame
restoration guy, reads, the a blurb on PTN in Traditional Building which
I wake up halfway through the meeting and realize that I wrote it...
DREAM TEAM and all, though I have no idea how it got into TB... and I
find an opportunity to talk about the importance of convergence between
craft and architecture. David and Pam Smith are plannig to spend two
weeks at the end of July working as volunteers on an old church in
Nantucket. Seems I have an opportunity to help American kids go to
France for two week stints to work on 13th century castles & stuff. \
I have consigned myself to a simple scenario that as much as I want to
reduce my overload I am not happy when the world around me is not
agitated into action. When I have less agitation I am simply going to go
find more. I spend all week looking for something to bother me. It is my
son's 23 birthday on Thursday and we spend the entire day together. All
day he pays attention and he teaches me. Though my emotional stress is
peaking out, he remains rational and we make it all the way home. Thank
god. We may or may not have unlimited access to a JOS machine for
cleaning samples. Kathy goes to the laundrymat.
Friday... I get my delayed bloodwork done. With the diabetes they
recently picked up mild kidney failure and a spot of blood in the eye,
though not that I can see it. I'm told with proper maintenance I will be
able to retain my reading sight for another 30 years. I've got too
damned many books not to pay attention. This is why I am revolting --
plus the fact that people on BP keep telling me stories that make me
imagine another world over there somewhere if we only dare reach out for
it. Though I have always enjoyed John Milton I do not want to end up in
a white fog, or a black one either. Within one week I have managed to
adjust and stabilize my blood sugar level. I'm happy. Turns out David's
driver license expired yesterday and he goes and renews it, no problem.
We get the fax machine to receive faxes. On Sunday we are running away
to Mannasas, VA to pick up the stone for the fireplace in Hartford, CT
where the SUV ran into the oldest house in that place. I'm hoping to
have time to bother the folks at the Twain house if the selection of
books in the place is authentic to period, leastways, to find out who
made the selection if it was deliberate. No time to stop in Bridgeport
at the Barnum Museum, though possibly a fly by with Leland. I talk with
my friend Dick and he explains the Trust that is legal in the
disbursement of funds in a constructiion contract and I am scared out of
my wits and promise that I will meet with the lawyer that he recommends.
What I really want to talk with Dick about is ghost writing his life
story. The hour that he spent on the ophone one Friday afternoon
explaining to me the inner workings of the Columbian sugar cartel
remains a precious memory. In the mean time I have to figure out how to
cut out some limestone in a church so that a water fountain can be
installed. The fax machine now receives. Broadband should be installed
by the end of next week. David put the licens plate on the trailer. I
filed for an EIN w/ the IRS.
It is so kool!
][<
--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>
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