Today I found out that there is no graceful or manly way to
carry two 10ft lengths of pressure-treated lumber and ten
6ft lengths of pipe insulation across a windy Home Depot
parking lot. The lumber is hard to balance, and the pipe
insulation are like pool noodles but more limp. I would have
kept the flat cart, but the wind threatened to blow the
ultra-light foam noodles all over, so I had to bundle them
under my arm and let them flop around while I tried to not
drop the wood.
The house is almost sold. The buyer came back with their
inspection requests; among them were requests to replace
some rotting wood in an access doorway under the house, and
to put insulation on some pipes.
Because of this house-selling business, I haven't had much
time to write, or do anyting artistic. Since this is my
"art, writing, music, language, and more" phlog, I call
upon the imagery of a middle-aged man carrying a load of
limp pool noodles and some precarious lumber as "art." I
suppose it's up to the one peddling the stuff whether or not
it is art.
I'm also having trouble finding time to finish Schismatrix.
I'm in chapter 7, with Lindsay's first wife just coming back
into the picture. Hopefully I'll get to read a bit before
bed; I'm curious how that will play out.