Compound Construction

Another early morning in the late season.
I can see people waiting for the Messiah and the bus. Twenty new souls on the street chilled in a purple shade. They watch the sun warm a growing strip of asphalt. Its brightness is burned through by the shadow of a woman made up with clumpy mascara and cheap red lipstick flapping a watercolor likeness of the lord in a tongue of lazy enunciation.
The flock thins around the plump bellied prophet. Eyes dart around her, not sure if she is prepared to break into Oration.

Bits of dust settle

I spent the first half of my day off waiting for the man to come to fill the rat holes. Fret not, dear reader, we are not co-habitating with rodents. Two and half hours after the time we scheduled with the management company--not answering phones today-- Romanian Bruce Springsteen arrived with caulk, silicone and plaster. Please do not let your imagination wander, dear reader, there is still the kitchen light, the toilet seat and some electrical issues to address.

It was rather uninspiring before the sun burned off the clammy cold, and now, our windows are open to the last couple hours of day. Is it wrong that I should want to spend them laying down with a dead physicist instead of a computer screen?

There's a new biography on Richard Feynman. It's an unfortunate cover, but I have it under my pillow so I can kiss his face in the morning. It's rather good so far.

Also from W.W. Norton, Townie, also unfortunately covered and not yet published. I hope they print it soon, so it can hurry up and be a big deal already. Dubus the Younger wrote a phenomenal portrait of turbulent humanity.

I have a dinner in Onion Square tonight, for a children's writer whose book I have yet to see. I can speculate, but I hope they give us a copy so I can test my hypothesis. Very scientific, this book selling business.

Corps! Dormez vous!

I think my body is taking this extra hour and choosing to write.

A half hour ago I woke to the usual sounds of the city, and I haven't been able to go back to sleep. How does one just add an hour of life?

After not blogging for three months, I could probably suck that hour right out of Dear Reader. Perhaps the hour is already devoted to something else.

Suffice it to say, I will gesture and begin to write plus que ça change...I will end up trailing off because I want to write about how I noticed the other day that Raquel Welch has absolutely no dialogue in 1966's "Fantastic Voyage" until nineteen minutes have passed.

So you see, what is an hour? When in some forty years, there are still so many of us fighting the good fight.

I voted, barely. I should have registered in New York but I floated on the blue blood of this town. I'm interested to see what will happen in the two years of a political body that has evolved into something of a Hydra, but what a beautiful beast she is.

Here is my current literary sound-track:
Scott Pilgrim, A+ for Awesome in the skateboard sense.
Witches on the Road Tonight, V for very good and very hard to sell.
Graveyard Book, G++ for Good Golly Gaiman.
and the marvelous Nina Simone.