There are times when I'd rather write stuff about thoughts that drift through my mind than to act responsibly and fulfill my social obligations or do the mountain of chores around my house that I can get by without doing because I don't appear to be deeply impressed by social obligations.
One of the chores that I'm putting off in order to mindlessly ramble through the other non-sense I haven't manifested yet is to finish the wall I'm putting up in my house. As a structural object it's very close to being what it needs to be in order to perform the designed function as a "wall". The biggest part of that function is to insulate my bathroom from the "new room" so that I can heat and cool the new room with the same machines I use to heat and cool my bedroom.
To insulate my bathroom from it's present state of construction will take a lot more money than I have to spend on it. I sorta have to do one project at a time to incrementally reach the good end, whatever that is. Basically, that end is to completely isolate each room in the house so that any one of them can be heated or cooled as appropriate to my ongoing temperament.
One of the most practical projects I've undertaken was to put an insulated wall around that portion of my house on the first story that I use as a kitchen. The reason it was practical is that it protects my water pipes from busting from freezing temperatures during the winter. All my plumbing is either in that space or the one above it, the bathroom.
Placing the bathroom above the kitchen was a dumb idea, and if and when I get the wherewithal I'll change it. I don't know how yet, but if and when I get the money (and I ain't croaked yet) it's gonna happen. It's inevitable that I'll die pretty soon after the county approves my construction practices and gives me a permit to have the electricity permanently installed. Right now, I can't imagine that happening, and soon enow, I might not be able to imagine it due to senility.
Selah
Life can be rude and quite tragic.
I am is that tragedy's dream.
It's home is a hollowed out mountain,
and it's life is short mountain stream
A poem tells it's tradigitous story.
it's words are a barbershop song
they are sung by a fretful perceiver
masquerading as Death all along.
fmp, 1/18/12
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
