| Sometimes I wonder if I'm happy with too little. |
|
| But then again, I'm happy. What more do I want? |
|
| Would I be happier if I were living some grand |
|
| romantic version of the artist lifestyle? Or would |
|
| it just become a grind? There's something I like |
|
| about the strenuous work I do--so long as I only |
|
| have to do it 3 days/week. There's something |
|
| to be said for wearing down the body, clearing |
|
| the mind, and focusing dimensionally on the task |
|
| at hand whether it's drilling a hole, scooping gravel, |
|
| scrubbing rust stains off concrete, applying clear |
|
| coat, gluing and nailing off subfloor, or making 5 |
|
| cuts around and through a thick
GluLam
beam |
|
| and having it come off square--all of which I did |
|
| today after first having one of those crystallized |
|
| moments upon getting to the jobsite in West Seattle |
|
| at 8:39 a.m. PDT: overnight rain on agriculture tarp |
|
| we had lain the night before, puddles scattered |
|
| like a mirror that'd broken and turned to mercury. |
|
| There was something about it that said: I am here. |
|
| The forecast was for rain but the morning was |
|
| sunny. Kind of unbelievably. The trains, cranes |
|
| and containers of a working port were at my feet, |
|
| the beeping of large reversing machinery recurred |
|
| throughout the day, imprinting itself vividly.... |
|
