[120] Screed City

[120]

03/29/2022 Tuesday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Here is the dilemma. I have a new scheme. Or, I guess. I mean, I am looking for new structure. I need to refine my approach. Which means, I mean, I enjoy a good screed, right? But you can't screed all the time. That would make you a blowhard. But you can't not screed otherwise you lose your ability to really stick it to the man. I mean, the difference between a journal and a screed is that you have a very pointed and deliberate thing you are trying to say. I mean, a journal is just stuff that happens. I mean, I don't know what I mean, I mean, I started this new project. And, like always, I need to not focus too hard on that project because I will ruin it. I know this, you know this, I talk about it all the time. I mean, I need to screed one day and do the project the next day. Giving space to both things. But where I am failing is that nothing is really happening right now. I mean, lots of stuff is happening, just not so much on the day to day aspect of my life. I mean, sure, things are way more unsure, unknown right now than they were at this time last year. Or even two years ago. I guess, I mean, I guess not. I mean, it is 2022 now, March of 2020 was kind of messed up. But that is one of those things where chaos was the new reality. The new normal as the bridesmaids say. But since then things have really quite calmed down. And since that is true we need to take steps to normalize again. And, frankly, I am having trouble adjusting. I mean, I started growing sideburns in some hope that I could have some actual control in my life, and so far that is going quite well. But you can't plan your life on what you are doing with your facial hair, am I right?

I mean, Ted Cruz never shaved his god-awful beard. I mean, that was supposed to be the canary, if I remember right. I mean, the canary isn't dead. And as such, we must proceed with that knowledge. So I started writing this fucking thing. And for some dumb reason the main character is from the South. I mean, I don't know shit about the South. Aside from that it really seems like a Racist Conservative Hell-Scape. And the guy had to get out of town because he knocked some teenager up. So he goes up to Wyoming to get away from the people in Alabama that are going to kill him because of it. And guess what happens when he gets to Wyoming? Trouble. He finds trouble. I mean, all of this is just fine by me. Right in my bridesmaids wheelhouse. But because I made the dude from the South, I mean, I am writing the thing and even I don't believe that he is from the South. Which is whatever. It is fiction. What can you do? When the auther says a guy is from the South you kind of have to believe them. Even if the character is poorly written. And the thing is, it doesn't matter that he is from the South. It just doesn't. The whole point was to have some guy running away from some problem he created. But because he is from the South he has a fucking accent. And says stuff like "I am losing my religion with you, Creep." Which is just so stupid. I mean, I got that from an REM song. It means he is losing his temper. Which is all fine and all, and doing stupid shit like that is just fine. But because I have zero, I mean, zero interaction with the South the guy is just getting kind of tiresome. And what this has to do with anything is that I was not going to write a screed tonight. I was going to work on that thing instead, but because I wrote myself into a hole, I am now very frustrated about it. I mean, I am four chapters in and I want to go back and start over, which! I mean, I have already started over once before. But hear me out, see if you can make out what this conversation means. I mean, I wrote this last night. Last thing. And today I opened the thing and was about to start writing and I was confronted with this:

"Everything come out alright?" The spastic music was too loud. I couldn't hear him exactly.

"What?!" He stood up and turned the music down.

"What are you, like from the South or something? You sound like it."

"Yes, ma'am." I used my Southern drawl to answer his question. He frowned and then laughed. "I thought I told you."

"Told me what?"

"At Goose's. That I come from Bammy."

"I don't remember that. Who did you tell?"

"You and that Jessy guy."

"That's a weird thing to brag about, right?"

"I wasn't bragging, what the hell do ya'll talk about?"

"I don't know. Ask yourself."

"What on earth? Are you just ribbin' me or what's the other?"

"I don't know what ribbin' is, but I also don't know what kind of fun times you are having coming up here to Wyoming to just brag about coming from Alabama, you catch my drift?"

"I am not catching any of your drifts, man. You should maybe remember that I owe you a chop in the still, curly?"

"English, dude. You have to speak English."

"English? You want me to speak English? I got about two eight balls in your corner pocket, duggy! You want these cuffs, we should prolly stand up, I think."

"See! There you go. Prolly, I get that. I am just fucking with you though, it's not that big of a deal. I really don't think."

Can you make that out? I mean, I don't remember being high when I wrote it, but maybe I had smoked a doobie or something. I mean, the whole point was to create a segue for the two guys to start having a sincere conversation, but this is pure nonsense. Which, I mean, I am okay with nonsense, but this just made me want to go back and erase about half of the shit I had written. Which, I mean, why this has anything to do with a screed is that had I just written the thing with the idea of having an audience when I was writing it I would never have allowed this garbage. Which is why I am writing a screed tonight instead of working on the thing. Because if I know myself, and I think I do, I just need to let this air out. You know? Give up first, the solution will present itself. I made that one up, not the bridesmaids. So, anyway, I suppose we should get back to the laughs.

Did some Log Doggin' today. Turns out that Scott is the modern George Washington. But he didn't have to tell his dad that he couldn't tell a lie. He just cut down the cherry tree. Two of them. Big ol' mofos to boot. Then he bragged about it. Just joking. I mean, he didn't brag but it did look like he had some fun cutting one of them down. The first one I didn't see. I mean, I had a good time watching. I was up the hill. Using the Chainsaw Jr. to limb the first tree. Standing in the duck enclosure. Those fucking weirdos. Not only that, but the male ducks go around raping the female ducks. I mean, you can tell which are which because the females have dirty backs and missing feathers and bloody necks where the male ducks bite them. And the males are clean as baby's whistle. No cares in the world. Dragging their giant dicks on the ground. With the two-headed snake thing happening. I mean, I was hanging out watching Scott cutting the cherry tree down and the male ducks were chewing on a frozen egg that one of the female ducks had laid. And then they would waddle around and make their odd noises and go off and chase the females around. I mean, it was an odd scene. But then, a little while later when Scott said:

"Okay. This is, um, going to be unpredictable." I mean, he yelled that over the sound of the chainsaw. And uphill and thirty feet away. I mean, I backed up even further. Some time went by. He had to do some chopping with some axes. Wedging, as it were. I mean, wedging doesn't mean chopping, but the idea was the wedging and chopping got involved. I mean, I watched and watched. Then the thing started coming down. Down and away. I was not in any danger now. I looked over and this chicken was really getting freaked out. I mean, she was running for her life and it was quite the thing to see. Like a fat little teenaged football player. Squawking and flapping her wings. But running as fast as she could go. Which was not very fast. I mean, it was out of a cartoon. I wished that I had taken a video because it was something else. I mean, when they finally get around to adding video to the dictionary, I mean, they could use that meme as the definition of panic. Feckless action against an unknown danger. It was something special. And I feel blessed that I was able to see it. I mean, I won't lie, chickens and ducks are way more entertaining than those stupid idiot goats. I mean, I think they should move the chickens and ducks and the pigs down to Beaver Haus. Move all the goats to the Compound. I mean, if it makes sense to keep me entertained.

After the cherry tree came down I took the Chainsaw Jr. and went about limbing the thing. Trying to cut 16 inch things. I mean, I was bad at it. They all came out closer to 14 inches or 12 inches. Scott came back around later and said:

"These look like they are about 12 inches, Joe." And I said:

"Well, yeah, I had a reason for that." Then he said:

"All these look like they are about 12 inches, Joe." And I said:

"Well, yeah, I had a reason for making them all that size."

I mean, I didn't. I just didn't have a good gauge on 16 inches. I mean, I know what eight inches is pretty good, I guess I should have just doubled that. If you catch my drift. I mean, Professor Curly can catch my drift if you can catch my drift? Ay-oh! But I didn't do a great job. However, Scott said:

"You are doing a great job, Joe." I mean, I think he was being ironic, but I took it as a compliment.

Yesterday I went to Waitsfield to buy some sugar and some canning jars. Half-gallon ones. From Bisbee’s. The sugar I got from the Shaw's. $7 dollars for ten lbs. I mean, that is essentially 20 gallons of Ticklers for $14 dollars. Not bad. Not bad. The canning jars on the other hand. $20 dollars for six of them. I bought 12. Which means that is enough for six more gallons of maple syrup. I mean, that is nice. I mean, the season is almost over, and today was cold as shit, so hopefully in the next few days we will get another 240 gallons of sap. Right? I think it is 40:1 for the finished product. I mean, that isn't unlikely. I mean, today and yesterday sucked for sap running, but the rest of the week looks good. I mean, I think it is possible. And Scott was telling me the cherry wood burns real nice. Like hot. Hotter than the other junk we were burning. The wet and wild smoky stuff. I mean, I think he said:

"This cherry burns better than the wet and wild smoky stuff, Joe." Just joking. I can't remember what the other wood was. Birch or something. I mean, it was all half rotten and wet. Chopping it up was kind of a bummer. It was either impossible to chop or it just disintegrated when you axed it. Butwhatever. Chopping the cherry stuff was nice. It was dry and split easy. Even the crotch stuff. Where the trunk met the big limbs. I mean, there was one piece that looked just like a pair of shorts on somebodies legs. That was a funny bit of wood. I mean, I didn't even want to chop that one up because I kept getting a good tickle about the idea of boring the wood out and making a pair of wooden shorts out of it. I mean, at some point Scott chopped it up and I didn't even notice. I mean, I can't catch a break.

I mean, G is coming over tomorrow. They got back from Europe on Monday. Yesterday, I guess. I think we are meeting at Manch-Town around 11a tomorrow. Going to stay until Saturday. And then on Sunday I will head to Portland, Maine. I mean, I don't know what we will do, but it will be nice to hang out for a few days. SPRING BREAK! I mean, Professor Curly is on an airplane as we speak. Heading to Germany. I mean, I guess things are actually getting back to normal now. The pandemic is over! What that means, I don't know. It is just life now. I mean, around 3p me and Scott had to take Junior Mint to Lower Granville to pick Grit up from the bus. I mean, I had parked at the bottom of Fassett Hill and walked in because I would rather not worry about the car and walk in, then worry about the car and save myself a little bit of walking. I mean it was so cold this morning when I went over there. I was carrying three bags. Re-usable Shaw's bags. One bag had my stuff. A bottle of water. A bottle of coffee. A burrito. My Future Abes. Hearing protection. And some other stuff. The other two had the half-gallon jars. I mean, I put my fingerless gloves on. Thinking that would be enough. But it was not enough. Half-way down I had to stop and put my actual gloves on. I mean, my fingers burned because they were so frozen. I mean, it was cold as shit. I was surprised. But what can you do? Nothing, that is what. I mean, there is a reason everyone is so grumpy around here. I mean, it goes like this:

Winter for nine months. Mud season. Rainy Summer. Winter for nine months.

How does anyone live here? I mean, there are very brief moments of breathtaking beauty and also moments of unbearable heat. But for the most part it is just shit weather and nothing to do. There is no big wow that nobody actually wants to live here. I mean, this is the reason that nobody can get out at the same time. It is some insane mobius strip of inertia. Just barely holding it together at all times. And at the same time, you find yourself sometimes being filled with absolute elation about the future. Like you could do anything. The oyster. Make plans. Businesses you could start. Races you could get going. Join the City Congress. I mean, I write like a maniac up here. But then the reality is, you have to deal with Vermont on it's own terms. And Winter just sucks. And there is nine months of it every year. From the end of September to the middle of May. I mean, you can tell the season by what you are doing with your tires. What your gas bills are. What boots your are wearing. I mean, this is what I mean when I think I need a new scheme. Or I have a new scheme. You have to give into it. You just have to. And if we are going to keep living here it means that there is going to have to be a full-on commitment to staying here. There is no in-between. Which is just fine. It is cheap enough that we can figure it out, but it does mean some sort of realistic and practical, pragmatic ways of dealing with things. Like, I don't know, maybe spending December through April somewhere fucking else. Which is possible. But, I mean, let me air out something real quick that has been weighing heavy on my mind since last November.

I got this this thing about this Farmers Market thing that I thought I really wanted to do, but now I don't think I want to do. I mean, I want to do it. I just don't think it is good for me. It is just hard work and will fuck me up pretty good if other money comes my way. Work money. So I have to tell them. I mean, I didn't expect to get accepted into their academy. I didn't. I thought they would tell me to suck it. But now that they accepted me I have to tell them to suck it. But I don't know. I don't know what the future holds. So I have been delaying any response. But I have to respond now. And soon. Like today. Like yesterday. And I want to do it, but I don't want to have to do it. So I am in this interstitial thing where I am becoming an asshole because I haven't responded. But here is the thing. I have all this residual feelings about the thing. I mean, I want to know if Abby actually had a baby. If Jarrod, the cutting board dude, is still going strong. I mean, remember that time I saw a naked vagina? I mean, all of it is something that I want to do, I just don't want to commit. I mean, it feels like an Ok Cupid date. I mean, I don't really want to have sex with this person, but I know that if we meet up at the bar we will have sex, however, I do find this person interesting, so who am I to deny myself this meet-up? I mean, sure, that is kind of gross, but you have to understand the that is how things work. Right? I didn't make the game, I am just part of the process. Bit then again in the meantime I fell in love with someone else, so it is basically a break-up for a relationship that never occurred. I mean, if that makes sense. I mean, I just have to be an adult about things, but I don't want to be and adult about things. I want all of it without the consequences. And who knows? Maybe that is a male-thing? Or maybe it is a human-thing. But I owe them an electronic mail and I have been hemming about it for weeks now. And the reason why is because I don't have any fucking clue about what this Summer is going to look like. I mean, I could be un-Employed for weeks and weeks. Which is just fine. But if I am un-Employed I would like to do the Farmers Market. But if I have work, I don't want to do it. But then I know I am going to be in Wyoming for all of August. I mean, I just feel like a dick about. I know the answer, but I am just waiting to be forced to make a decision. I mean, whatever. I aint getting any younger. I just need to commit to writing books and working for good money. But still! I have other ambitions! I mean, I am thinking of starting a business that is just taco burgers. I will call it Taco Joe's. Because taco burgers are basically sloppy joes but Tex-Mex. I mean, I could spread the word about those things like Johnny fucking Apple-Seed. I mean, but that was never the point. The point was always to make the social experiment happen and then write the cookbook about it! I mean, all I am saying, all I am saying, is that I need to focus really hard and believe in myself and do a great job. Then everything will become clear. I mean, when me and Scott picked Grit up from the bus stop in Lower Granville, I put a couple Hershey Kisses on the back seat for her. She was confused that me and Scott were picking her up. The Publisher was supposed to pick her up but there was a publishing emergency. Grit saw the chocolate and sat down in the back seat. She said:

"Thanks, Joe." I mean, that is all you can ask for. I mean, I feel like all of this was just building up to the fact that the bus driver was not wearing a mask. Grit was. Something tells me she won't be wearing one next week. Or even tomorrow. And as much as things have gone so very wildly in one direction, those same things are coming back around again. And so be it. You can't fight inertia. Entropy always increases. That is the will of the Universe.