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It never fails. Sundays, Labor Day... when everybody else is lounging, or treating the day of leisure the way it should be done, I find the need to get busy. Probably comes from years of night shift. Backwards from the rest of society. Whatever it takes.... Another day back in the woods, edging nearer to real progress. The price of progress, being drenched in funk. Eau de chainsaw. L'Air du Stank. It's impossible to section old timber, flail way at overgrowth, and scratch through to terra firma without a self-inflicted force field. At least, it keeps the bugs away. Progress is, simply, doing Something. Making the body move. Using the grey matter to make quick decisions... even if the decision is just "how do I make this tree not fall on me?" Maybe I am setting my sights too low... but it beats ass-sitting, at this point. Certainly cheaper than the spa, at any rate. As usual, any visit to Slick Willie's to tend the peppers ends up in the intake of adult beverages. Beer, shots of tequila, and shit-talking. Quite a combination. In this case, I think the holiday caught up with me. The old boy's considering the purchase of a decomissioned British military vehicle, suitable for running rampant over the weeds on the hill. God, will we never grow up? There goes the neighborhood. At home, status quo is the modus operandi, as if all is unchanged. Except for the emotional weather forecast... the edge is where I walk. I'm too used to forward motion being chopped off to take much seriously... so, for now, I'll play along. But, something's in the air. No premonitions or anything, but there's this feeling that all is not as it seems. We shall see. The future is unwritten. |
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