Wednesday, December 16, 2015


Charles, the fluorescent bulb has blown apart;
broken with a bang as I hit the door handle on the way
down. A quick fall while I was bending over pushing a box
into the corner. The box hit the bulb which was upended in
the same corner. It fell and shattered so quickly, at first I
thought a gun had gone off right next to my ear. A flash of
white powder, some residue in the air, lingered. It made me
think twice, right then, about breathing. I picked up as
many of the glass shards as practical. Then I realized my
hand was bleeding. What an annoying mess I'd made.
Pete, someone has tracked mud in from the parking lot.
There are thick, tarry footprints all about. As they dry, they
turn to a brown dust, a dirt that is, actually, easy to remove.
The wait for drying is what throws me. At first, the tracks
look as permanent as paint, then, as they lighten and dry,
they blow away with the simplest whisk of a broom.
Ed, there is sawdust everywhere. I did it as I was deftly
sawing the pieces of wood used for framing. In fact, I do it
nearly every day  -  a little bit at a time. The daily, yellowish
pile of sawdust that stays, I simply brush about, It seems to
disappear into the fabric of the carpet, yet I know that, at
some inopportune date in the finite future, there will come a
time when evidences of sawdust will have accumulated, I
am sure, to the point where they are visible with nowhere to
put them. At that point only, I admit, will I worry about it.

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