Sunday, September 13
It's mid-September: normally the season of impending dissolution and incautious expectations. In Kansas they're parking trailers and setting up tents by now, stretching tarps and putting meat on the smoker. If I concentrate I can halfway hear string music and smell handrolled cigarettes. We won't be there this year, most of us, for one reason and another. Everything gets fucked up sooner or later, and the truth about the Good Life is that nothing ever comes for free.
I've gotten really into writing code all day and coming home to drink beer and stand around in the garage organizing my tools. I have arguments about methodology and scribble pages of color-coded notes about bush-league design problems. Thinking gets easier when it's just an instrument. When there's just work to be done.
I told everyone just the other week that I was working on a long poem and promptly lost all momentum. I'll bet there's a lesson in this. Probably the usual one about shutting up and putting up.
It was in the 40s yesterday in Boulder. Cloudy and raining, jacket weather. I went to a charity show and spent a hundred bucks I don't have on art, and then a further thirty putting another headlight on my rattletrap bicycle, which is starting to look more than anything like an aluminum cyborg insect with gumwall tires. I hope to eventually carry enough lumens to be as aggravatingly, blindingly visible as the average car. My ambitions are more constrained than they used to be, but at least they're achievable. Given big enough batteries.