October 3, 2009

Full moon. Every detail of the ruined garden stands in stark blue detail. By day the butterfly bush and the butterfly weed are, as advertised, aflutter with butterflies. The monarchs are moving south.

Bad day. Worst. If it had been somebody else’s day, I would have said it was comically bad, but I actually didn’t find it very funny. Steve the Plumber fixed the visible leaks, but the meter kept spinning. His theory is that the whole pipe between my house and DJ’s is gone, crushed, Swiss cheese. Sometime when he gets to it he will dig up the back yard, and the shade garden, and replace the pipe, and we will hope that the plumbing god is finally satisfied. The bill begins to rival the downpayment on the whole damn property. Jolene observed that my last month’s water bill was larger than the whole Phil Mechanic Building’s for a year, and with the bio diesel boys using thousands of gallons. I do not know where all the water could be going. The entire Carolina aquifer must be restored by now.

Tried to format Piss and Four for the Gospel Makers for Francine’s book. The whole formatting thing is a source of fury to me, and is the reason why I let Urthona Press slide away. But there I was, in the midst of it, having to try again and again, eventually realizing that part of the required formatting simply could not be done. One command prevented the other. Too exhausted for rage. So final is my hatred of this that if Francine hadn’t finally said, “I’ll do it,” I would have withdrawn the plays.

A bit of flu, too. Not much to it, except for the digestive system. Haven’t eaten–permanently-- in two days. Thought I would not eat until the plumbing is fixed. If God can prove a point, so can I.