[195] Screed City

[195]

09/15/2022 Thursday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

Back in Granville. I don't know. Maybe you never knew I left? Went to Portland, Maine for the week. To work at the Brewery. GETTIN’ PAAAID! As Tom F would say. I mean, the trip is worth it. As long as I work exactly 33.5 hours. I mean, I worked 34 hours. On accident. I mean, I mis-judged how long it would take me to clean up today. I mean, I had exactly five boards to cut and two cables to make and for some reason that took me six hours minus the 30 minutes I took for lunch. I mean, I joked about it in the morning. That such a small job would take all day plus more. But in the end I was not joking. I mean, this job has a lot of ins and outs. Plus every morning there is a required morning meeting that takes up 15 minutes at least. And then the shop is one place and the job site is another. So if I forget a single tiny thing I have a six minute walk to and from the shop. I mean, I didn't forget a bunch of stuff, but I needed stuff I didn't have at certain points in the day, meaning I probably lost at least an hours just doing that walk 10 different times. Plus every time I ran into anyone, I mean anyone, there was at least a five minute talk. Plus I had to meet with Liz about other projects that will start next week. Plus I needed some lumber that was a ten minute walk to and from Building 110. I mean, I had to do that one twice. I mean, my point is, it was both a lot of work and not very much work at all.

The whole job has been like that. Tedious. And I am sore from it. And sunburned. And wind blown. And today I was chilled. It's supposed to get into the 40's tonight. I mean, if I have to turn the heat on before October, somebody is going to get stabbed. I mean, I don't know if it is because of the super busy schedule, or just working in general and not having my weekends free or just the lack of anything cultural in my life, but I am growing super home-sick for the City. I mean, I have a plan for that, but still, I have at least a month before I will be able to spend any real time there. Mid October. I mean, we are doing the Brooklyn Book Festival on the 1st of October and I do plan on spending a few days down there, but I still have to come back up here for the weekend. I mean, whatever. I can keep my shit together.

I took the pretty roads back from Portland. I even took the pretty roads there. It is just SO much better of a drive. I mean, it is an extra 50 minutes. But worth it. Really worth it. And I think it is like 100 fewer miles. I mean, I have to go over a mountain to do it, but that seems like a decent trade off for 200 less miles on old Junior Mint, right? Or maybe it is equal, the trade-off, but still, there is a trade-off. The break pads. But then again I am not driving 80 mph’s either for three and a half hours. I mean, if it snows the pretty route will be out of the question, but for now, I mean, it is quite stellar.

Professor Curly left me a big stink at Beaver Haus. I mean, PU! Something she put in the compost bucket really laid the stank down. It was like a particularly stinky baby diaper. Rotten vegetables of some sort. I mean, I took the thing out to the compost heap an hour ago and it still lingers. Damn! I mean, she went to New Ham to see her dad. Will be back tomorrow. Which is bake day for me. I mean, ugh. My desire to bake tomorrow, not high. I mean, when I opened the freezer tonight to get some ice I saw some Bubby fillings and then almost cried. Because I had to stop what I was doing, had to grab a baking sheet, had to go out to the standing freezer and get all the fillings out to thaw. Which, I mean, when will it end? I mean, I know when it will end, but can't it just be over now? Can't we just don't and say we did? I mean, if those fickle assholes actually appreciated what kind of suffering I put myself through on their behalf, I mean, at least line up for my victuals when the market opens or something? I mean, I feel like a single working mother who has to make dinner for her brat children every night after work and all they do is complain about the meal. Won't eat it, and then I am stuck doing the dishes and getting them ready for school in the morning. And then in the morning they complain and drag ass before being dragged out the door and I then have to go to work, pick them up from soccer practice and then make dinner again with the same god damn results. The ungrateful bastards!

I mean, I think my foray into the baking world is coming to an end. I will still continue to experiment and explore the many factions of the Cubby Bubby, but I don't think I can do the market next year. I am just too burned out. It's not fun anymore, and although I do think that if I was 10 years younger and didn't have anything else going on, and frankly, was feeling real good about the Winters in Vermont, I do think I could make a business out of this thing. But my problem is that I am not motivated by money. Or better said, my money motivation is not a kind of motivation that makes me want to work hard to get it. I mean, with Cubby Bubbys I could do all sorts of things to increase my profits. I mean, I could get a truck. Or like a Cubby Bubby van. And I could cruise the state, do the State Fair. I could sell frozen Bubbys. Advertise. I mean, I am thinking about changing my license plate to read: BUB BYS. Or: CUB BUB. I mean, BUB BYS is like I am saying: "Buh-Byes!" Which doesn't make much sense. I could also do: SEX 247. That one would let people know that I hump all the time. Or: WED 420. That way people would know that I get my bong on. Or that I got married on April 20th. I mean, whatever. My point is this, I just don't have it in me anymore. The experiment has failed. I will write a book about it and that will be that. Consider The Taco Burger [Italics.] I mean, can't we go back to the Summers of 2020 and 2021? Live like that forever? I mean, I know everyone else had a horrible time, but for me, those were the best Summers of my life. Which, I think MFK Fisher wrote Consider The Oyster [Italics] after the best two Summers of her life, when she moved to Vermont and started selling raw oysters at a farmers market outside of Jay, Vermont. A little bit of writers lore for you to wrap your wimpy little un-read minds around. Go back to school!

I mean, I am just saying. I have exactly enough time in my day to do two of my hobbys. I can't do more than that. I mean, if you consider work to be a hobby. Which, I suppose that that is the opposite of a hobby, in the way that being a professional means that you make money doing the thing that you are doing. I mean, I make money at the Farmers Market. I sometimes make money with the writing. I mean, maybe I mis-spoke. I can only do two non-hobbys at a time. I mean, the serial, the Cubby Bubbys, the Ticklers, writing in general, having a job, living in Vermont. I mean, all I am saying is that I need my weekends free again! That is all I am saying. Because I can't do shit. I mean, the Donkey serials are due today, and I haven't had time to make them. And I won't have time until Sunday. And on Sunday I need to bake because next Friday is a concrete pour, and I am supposed to be in Portland all week. Which I can delay the morning in Monday by leaving here at 5a, but that means baking on Sunday. Which, remember that I have to also print on Sunday? Oh, and I have to cook on Saturday, AFTER THE FARMERS MARKET. I mean, how the hell did nobody get the memo that I am lazy as a dog!?!? And that no matter what, I will spend at least four hours writing every god damn night. Which is one of those prehensile things from back when I started making art back in the fucking 90's! I mean, I am not a starving artist, that implies that I have a trust fund and I am just choosing to make art instead of using my Harvard Law degree to work on Wall Street. No! I am not a starving artist, I am a working class artist mother-fuckers. I have no choice. Even if I want to starve for my art, I can't because I would literally starve to death. I am not using my monthly stipend to buy paint instead of food, I am working to buy paint so I can paint after work. Plus starving. I mean, in no way in hell am I starving right now. A life of absolute poverty has prepared me for this moment. Plus all the working and gaining knowledge about doing my god damn job. But, I mean, I spent this amount of money this week:

Gas for car: $120

Food: $12

Housing in Portland: $125

$257 doll hairs. I made $3,060. I mean, of course there were other costs. But those are part of another calculation. My point is not that I didn't spend money, my point is that I spent $12 dollars. For the week. On food. Because I am cheap and used to living like a tramp. And it wasn't on accident. I made 8 burritos before I left. Then I ate those 8 burritos throughout the week. One on Sunday while driving. Two on Monday. Two on Tuesday. Two on Wednesday. And one today. I bought, bought! Two bags of potato chips, some mini-Snickers bars and a bag of ca-shews! Gesundheit. I mean, I am not saying I am good with money, I just don't spend it. Because every fucking dollar you spend is a dollar you have to get back. I mean, PegLeg was telling me about my dad when I was in Wyoming. About how he loved to quote Ernest Hemmingway. Which I did not know that he did this. But apparently E. Hemmingway worked at the post office before he was like rich and famous or whatever, however you want to interpret the lore of writers and fame and celebrity, but his quote was this:

Okay, it was Faulkner and his quote was this:

"As long as I live under the capitalistic system, I expect to have my life influenced by the demands of moneyed people. But I will be damned if I propose to be at the beck and call of every itinerant scoundrel who has two cents to invest in a postage stamp.

This, sir, is my resignation."

I mean, my point is that I agree, but that isn't really my point and now I am side-tracked because it was Faulkner and not Hemmingway and Faulkner was quitting his job and Hemmingway can suck it. I mean, I feel like my point isn't being made at all. I should have just let it be vague. Stay vague. That is the real point. Get a job, only spend $12 dollars on food for the week and then write every night. That is my point. Then one day you too can, I don't know? Quit your job in a clever way? I mean, my problem with both these writers is that I don't really care for them at all. They do have good book titles. If that means anything. I mean, if I have to pick a writer from this time frame, a White male misogynist-racist-type, I would pick Steinbeck. He seems the least problematic. And I loved, and still love Tortilla Flat [Italics.] And there was something pretty good about The Grapes of Wrath [Italics] and Travels With Charley [Italics] although the name of that book is a stinker. But travel writing generally has bad titling. Why is that? I mean, travel books are quite fascinating. But then again, Travels With Charley [Italics] is a story about a man and his dog in search of America, which, I mean, the first like scene is Steinbeck proving how manly he is because his boat gets like stuck in some sand and he has to prove how strong he is to his wife so he goes out and gets it un-stuck and then in order to keep proving how manly he is he takes his dog on a months long road trip without his wife. I mean, what? But the guy is a good writer. And I don't know if Hemmingway is a good writer. I haven't been able to get through a single book he has written. Faulkner neither, for that matter. I mean, As I Lay Dying [Italics] is maybe one of the best titles of any book. But so what? I mean, I hate to tell you, but there are millions and millions of us out here writing books, and have been for hundreds of years. And, like GW Bush and his broccoli, I am an adult and I don't like that sort of writing, so I am not going to read it if I don't have to. Give me MFK Fisher any day. Or Agatha Chrystie or Patricia Highsmith. For the exact opposite reason that supposedly these male pricks are famous. I mean, if the peak of the male patriarchy literary world is the 1920's-1960's then the counter-culture to that is really where it is at. I mean, whatever, what the hell do I know, I dropped out of school when I was 17, but I do think, in a very specific way, that we can ignore these writers at this point and nothing will be lost. Teach the shit in a history class and move on. Short sentences. They are cool. Long sentences, those are the kind of sentences that can also, I mean, in a sense, be added to the idea of what sentence construction means, I guess, if I was to be someone that actually thought about how long a sentence should be or whatever, I mean, if things are always going to be defined by the thing you imply instead of what you infer, vis a vis the idea of the suggested narrative, I mean, those sentences are good too. The vibe of a sentence, I mean. I mean, WHATEVER! All three of those assholes won Nobel Prizes for the crap they wrote. Good or bad. Writing changes. I mean, read Women [Italics] by Charles Bukowski. Speaking of travel books with good names. I mean, uncouth, racist pricks can write some pretty good books. So what? Where is his Nobel Prize? Where is mine? I am here writing about a collapsing working class in the face of a fascist takeover of America and does old Albert Nobel come knocking on my door? Come ringing on my phone? Hell no! I can't even get a Pulitzer for this shit! And I have exposed how much it sucks!

I mean, I can only think that the only one reason the exact reason I am left out here in the cold is that I am straight and White and male. That is the only reason! Society has turned against me! I scrimp and save, deny myself any luxury, and yet here I am, bereft of any accolades. Think about that for one second. A guy like me can't catch a break. What does that mean for you? You should be livid! Pitch forks and gallows livid! More rights for male Whites! Pulit-zer! Pulit-zer! Open your eyes! Nobel Prize! Et cetera, et al.

I mean, riots on the street, I guess. Because if they won't come for me, they won't be coming for you either. I mean, of course I am joking, but still, I have been writing this book that takes place in Wyoming. Casper, Wyoming. And it is funny. I mean, not the book, the book is probably hilarious, but that is not the point, the point is that as much time as I have denied myself the idea of writing about Wyoming becuase it is such a painful memory to me, I mean, the few things I have written about it have been mostly positive, I mean, novel-wise, I mean, I think I have made a break-through. And the writing is becoming more and more true to how fucked-up that shit-hole is. And how insane it is to grow up there while being non-typical and the terrible abuse that a person has to endure just to stay alive. And how it doesn't leave you when you move away. That shit is bone deep, man. Because it isn't funny. It's tragic. And it is just going to get worse as time goes on. But how the hell do you process that? I mean, I talked about prehensile things before, but I mean, it's not healthy. And I think it needs to get out that things are not right. And to bring up the macho writers from the past, the Hemmingway's or the Steinbeck's or the Faulkner's, I mean, this toxic male idea of how to live a life that even when you spent your entire life since you were barely 17, living on your own, and then 25 years later still having that gross attack on your identity, I mean, I don't even know what I mean.

[Insert Bird Photo]