It's funny how some days it threatens to rain all day, and you're sweatin because you really gotta get some shit done and you're hoping that the rain doesn't just start dumping on you. But like today, it holds off until well into the afternoon, when fatigue is already setting in and the cold beer is on my mind, the tools are getting put away and then the drops start dropping and then dropping more. Nicely done, Father Sky.
I like my work. I work with a friend. I could say, as the Christian bumper sticker says, that "my boss is a Jewish carpenter." Of course in my case his name is Tony and not Jesus. We crawl around underneath these old Victorian homes in our town and fix the foundations that are miraculously still holding up these houses. Powderpost beetles, rain, fungus, and time do their part to undermine the best efforts of measly humans who over one hundred years ago didn't know that such things could affect their work. But it's dirty work and sometimes nasty as fuck when you first go under a house to take out the insulation and decades of rats and other vermin have been making a stinking mess of the place. And then there's crawling around with barely 18 to 24 inches of clearance, digging your way into the inner perimeter, cutting out rotten wood, pulling out old concrete pierblocks, and then dragging jacks with you that each weigh 50 pounds or so, jacking the house up just enough to lift it an inch or so, and then propping it up temporarily with big pieces of lumber (4x6's, 6x8's, etc.). The funnest is trying to fanagle a 20 foot 6x8 under there. Those fuckers are not light. And while you're under there you have to lift it up at least a foot up onto the jack, but you're sprawled out so you have to do a combination of a bench press and some miracle lift to do it.
It's hard and grueling work some days. Dirty and hard on your limbs and joints. But you know what? I really like it. Mostly because I like who I work for. Not for, but rather with. He whistles while he works. Fuck-ups and mistakes he takes in stride rather than freaking out about them. The other day we were singing James Brown all day. The day before that it was gospel music. We joke a lot, have fun with what we're doing, and because of that I can get through the day. On top of it I'm learning a lot about what makes your house not fall down. And I've come into contact with stuff that's older than me or my parents, old growth timbers, old square nails made of iron, old bottles, buttons, pieces of dishes, silverware, old newspapers. The job we're on now we unwrapped some old water pipes that had old Seattle Times newspapers wrapped around them. From October 1932, in pristine condition. It could've been printed yesterday. Talking about FDR and an economic stimulus plan, lose weight the easy way, save money when you shop at the Bon Marche, etc.
Working on the foundation of old houses has metaphorical implications as well. Like the current house, apparently all the children born in that house had deformities. That's the word of the neighbor, who runs a holistic health center where you can get colonics and your liver and gall bladder flushed out. She's excited that the work is happening. She insists it'll change the neighborhood. There's another house we did last summer that had metaphorical implications but I don't want to get into it since it involves a lover and a breakup and other things. Boo-hoo me. But I'm okay with it, really. It turned out well...the house that is....and yes, the break-up too.
So now I'm at my favorite downtown coffeeshop after work having a Pacifico con limon because I've got concrete dust in my throat. And I'm just blabbing, which I guess is the purpose of this blog. And by the way, over on the other blog, the poetry one, I've been getting into odes of my favorite musicians. I got more to come. I'll expand it to other types of people, but I'm enjoying the odes thing. I've also been into bashing patriarchy and shit like that. Why? Because it needs to be bashed. And the thing that I like about it, at least the way that I do it, is that I use the language of the oppressor in the ironic sense to turn the trick, so to speak. Like the poem about the oil spill in the gulf, I describe it as sexual but not in the sensual sexual way but the violently sexual way. The poem titled "Patriarchy Defined" is a pure example of using the language of the oppressor in the ironic way to shine the light on the problem. I like it. I also have a lot of blood to spill, thanks to a certain dear friend. Blood in the kind way, in the raw, old, deep, ancient, motherly way. Blood. It's what we are.
I like beer.
Rain, rain, rain. Hasn't it rained enough? I mean, fucking fuck! Gimme some goddamn sun! I'm ready for the spring and the fucking goddamn summer that's about to solstice some shit! Does that make sense? Fuck it. Rain makes flowers and fruit, stop complaining.
I like beer.
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