An Unfortunate Series of Clusterfucks

I was on the road for a clean nine hours today. This including one long, looping journey throught he backroads of Dunstable, where signs warning of attack dogs are posted on gates -- the houses beyond can be oddly geometric, or they might be the sort of rustic farm, the type a wealthy person buys after retirement.

It took over two hours to get to one of these houses. Three weimaraners barked at me from inside while an older person, at least six-five and apparently some sort of full-time maintenance man, came out to accept my goods.

He went through the whole order, rejecting all he had asked for. When I left, he stripped the order of copper and fittings until all that remained were two small bottles of paste. Two hours for two jars of paste!

And as I wove among the grand houses, I made calls, trying, with ultimate futility, to come up with money for a water heater Jess and I had located at Sears.

It was a despairing day, cold and quiet. I checked my phone for email, hoping for word about a job. Nothing. I decided at one point I needed to get a weekend gig and move to a seven day workweek. I've done it before. I wrote Jess and told her this and she told me her friend might be able to get me a better paying driving job.

Through this all, I am simply more confirmed that I need to keep writing, even if it's just at times as a form of lamentation. Not a complaint, but a mournful look at the old and lost. If there's beauty to the road, it's there: old bridges and rail lines spotted from a backcountry drive, rusted tractors, occasionally the sight of some frisbee carrying and carefree dog to balance it all out and push it into the universal. But I've aged and grown tired and seen my life change while on the road. It hasn't been a journey but one endless circle sucking me back home, with only hints of progress. At times, it feels as though my expectations of myself are falling away like ships on the horizon. I'm going to grow a beard and stand against the cold. At some point, someone with like blood would have cursed fate and reached for his axe, and I know that the hot spirit hasn't left me, however weary of disappointment.

Not a complaint, mind you. But a view from the road.

*

I stopped by my mother's house after work for a quick shower before returning to Townsend. I caught a cold, but it's just a headcold and I have none of the typical achiness. Still, I suspect a shower will feel damn good and will wash away the dusty feeling on my skin.

*

And then? Cold nights, stargazing, maybe a bowl of soup. The regular.

*

I had a dream last night that Jess was under attack by some faceless horde, and I was trying to protect her. When I was younger, I often had dreams about being falsely accused. Now, the pattern is that I'm trying to protect someone or something.

I woke up and the chihuahua, Slappy, was crossing Jess's shoulder as though she was making a journey across the hills. I could see her eyes in the starlight, and even she looked mournful and resilient.

*

Seven minutes to write. That's all I've given myself time for. Showertime, bitches!