July 31, 2017 (Monday)

by Yule Heibel on July 30, 2018

Yesterday W., A., and I took a walk after coming back from the airport where we had dropped off and seen off and said goodbye again to E. and Ax., and I had started on their linens and towels, using the basement Frigidaire workhorse washer since my fancy-pants Blomberg POS washer is again broken, and we stopped at T.-café on our way looping home. We ate lunch there – smoked salmon tartine for me, ham-and-cheese for W. and A. It was restorative. I felt really wrung out – still feel that way.

The workers started at 8a.m. – they must have arrived just after we left for the airport – and they worked till almost 5p.m. It was very loud – they sawed the nails off, it was a shitshow of a mess, really hard work. Whoever had installed the deck used about three times the number of nails and screws necessary. Reminded me of my and Bob’s experience when we were taking out the many layers of kitchen flooring: all over-nailed, everything overdone, in triplicate. Gong show. Stressy for them, stressful to watch, for me. A saving grace is the beautiful weather – they’re not working in sauna conditions at least. It’s warm, but not oppressive. Shame, really, that we didn’t enjoy it as a vacation. Instead, I feel like I worked myself half blind all last week, as did W. with this busing business over the bridge while the rail bridge was being repaired, which added fifteen minutes each way to his commute.

And now it’s Monday again. E. and Ax. are back in Vancouver; I haven’t heard from them yet, but I know their plane landed on time yesterday. Long day for them, but they’re still so young.

I’ve kind of given up on the idea of turning these morning pages or anything else I write into anything. Maybe it was all the drivel I’ve written since the summer started, since the trees grew up to block my view. I wonder about my senescence, my aging, and how this will all work (or not) for W. and me. We know how it ends, broadly speaking. We’re dumb on the specifics, ignorant as shit. Will I really ever bring anything to fruition again? Fruition. Such an interesting word. Production and consumption implied. Growth, and then consumption. Does it – the fruit – get replicated in consumption? Being consumed, is it something that fertilizes others, propagates in others? Not real fruit, but DNA, cultural “fruits” or products? I guess that’s the hope. Too much “fruit” these days is just a consumable and then forgotten.

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