There were no more holes to dig and fill in again. We smashed up some hard things with big sticks with pointy bits.
There is a sink mystery. We need some sinks to go in the sheds that we built for the sinks. Months ago they were in the shipping containers on site. When we opened them yesterday they were not there. There were a lot of items there that were not sinks, like forks and mattresses and urns. We would pick something up and ask: is this a sink? If the answer was no, we would repeat the process with a different item until there were no more items left to assess.
After it turned out that nothing we had was a sink, we then made sure that the things we initially thought were not sinks were not sinks disguised as not-sinks. We were right. Then we put everything back again.
There were no flies. The spiders ate rust flakes.
Before all that we spread some gravel on a bit that didn't have any gravel on it.
Showing posts with label river. Show all posts
Showing posts with label river. Show all posts
Nous
The river's escaped. It's all over the road. It's going up the hills and getting in everyone's shoes. We called the sheriff and he rushed over in his canoe with the sirens on and shot sponges out of a big pipe.
Chinese Cheese
A serious beer, they call it, and it’s almost a pint and almost never on the menu and you have to ask for it twice. Normal unserious beers are served in glass thimbles and only good for quenching. This isn’t a complaint. I’ve been trying to write a story in my head, for a while, to save on paper, about this bald woman and her three-legged pug and a bar where it rains indoors. It’s impossible, but I read about a big serious Spaniard who once wrote his book in only two weeks because he’d already written it “in his soul” or possibly “on” his soul, so all he had to do when he sat down at the typewriter was copy. And I’m lacking a soul and the tools to write on one, but this woman and her pug keep leaning in while I go about my business. And I don’t know what they want. And it really does rain in this bar, by the doorstep, they have one of those misting systems, to soothe your being, but it’s faulty and drips a lot.
I went and talked to them, and the dog said nothing throughout, but cleared its throat a few times, and the woman was baritone and glinting. Her cancer was long gone but she’d kept “the dome” on display because “you make friends better this way”. The mister needs fixing but its “no urgency. Some people come for the drips.” The pug was no story. It was born with three legs and seems to enjoy itself. She shares it with her friends. It was never chewed by traffic. It knew before she did. About the cancer. It kept looking sad and nudging her and leaving medical leaflets in the bathroom. I don’t know if she was joking. So they caught it in time, and the pug was the first thing she saw when she woke up, she thought she must’ve fallen asleep at the vet, until she looked down.
It was very warm. I wanted to say “the sun has our pants down and is turning us into hot ruins.” The thermometers had wilted and the clouds were in the gutters and the mannequins were happy about this. They line both sides of the street for a quarter of a mile. Red lipstick, high eyebrows and shrieking hair. Ecstatic to be wearing clothes. The woman hates them. She is moving out, maybe. To write a book, a short one, a dose of something. She paid for my beer and said she had to go.
The afternoon was flat, sat by the river following the shade. White people were in the water, moving rocks, arranging the flow into narrow slowly-rushing channels for inflatable super-happy funtime. All down the river, wherever there’s a beach, there’s also an arrangement in the water, and an inflatable thing going down it with a person on top. And on the banks are some people you wish would show less, and some more, and sometimes a rope swing and a cave and a rock to jump off and fish between your toes.
I went and talked to them, and the dog said nothing throughout, but cleared its throat a few times, and the woman was baritone and glinting. Her cancer was long gone but she’d kept “the dome” on display because “you make friends better this way”. The mister needs fixing but its “no urgency. Some people come for the drips.” The pug was no story. It was born with three legs and seems to enjoy itself. She shares it with her friends. It was never chewed by traffic. It knew before she did. About the cancer. It kept looking sad and nudging her and leaving medical leaflets in the bathroom. I don’t know if she was joking. So they caught it in time, and the pug was the first thing she saw when she woke up, she thought she must’ve fallen asleep at the vet, until she looked down.
It was very warm. I wanted to say “the sun has our pants down and is turning us into hot ruins.” The thermometers had wilted and the clouds were in the gutters and the mannequins were happy about this. They line both sides of the street for a quarter of a mile. Red lipstick, high eyebrows and shrieking hair. Ecstatic to be wearing clothes. The woman hates them. She is moving out, maybe. To write a book, a short one, a dose of something. She paid for my beer and said she had to go.
The afternoon was flat, sat by the river following the shade. White people were in the water, moving rocks, arranging the flow into narrow slowly-rushing channels for inflatable super-happy funtime. All down the river, wherever there’s a beach, there’s also an arrangement in the water, and an inflatable thing going down it with a person on top. And on the banks are some people you wish would show less, and some more, and sometimes a rope swing and a cave and a rock to jump off and fish between your toes.
A Cumec or Two
It's floody with a chance of sun. It's raining in your pants and the lightning gets behind your eyelids and the thunder punches your ballbag and some people's feet have rotted off, you can see them at the edges of puddles like white toads.
The sky needs putting back together. There's a tree at the bottom of the weir turning over and over and shards of it are being washed down brownstream. Lidl is out of socks and the carpenter is out of arks. The snakes are here too. It's Biblemania. I nearly unintentionally strimmed one. It went straight down into the earth and was never heard from again. It must've known about The Imminent Inspection. Champion strimmers have been flown in for a five day orgy of wet destruction. There must be no long grass or other hazard within fifty metres of any tent. The inspector will spend the day trudging the perimeter in flip-flops and if he so much as stubs his toe he'll bury the campsite and ban us all from France for life. It's tomorrow. Tenterhooks are being issued and as soon as we find out what they are we'll all be on them. But the internet's been washed away and the dictionary of idioms is up shit creek.
The sky needs putting back together. There's a tree at the bottom of the weir turning over and over and shards of it are being washed down brownstream. Lidl is out of socks and the carpenter is out of arks. The snakes are here too. It's Biblemania. I nearly unintentionally strimmed one. It went straight down into the earth and was never heard from again. It must've known about The Imminent Inspection. Champion strimmers have been flown in for a five day orgy of wet destruction. There must be no long grass or other hazard within fifty metres of any tent. The inspector will spend the day trudging the perimeter in flip-flops and if he so much as stubs his toe he'll bury the campsite and ban us all from France for life. It's tomorrow. Tenterhooks are being issued and as soon as we find out what they are we'll all be on them. But the internet's been washed away and the dictionary of idioms is up shit creek.
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