road accounting

Down in the "UND" room with the hall door propped open with the garbage can yet again to let in enough light to see the washing machine I decided that I needed to blog something first thing today.

Q: How many weeks will it take the Browns to change a lightbulb?
A: . . . [still waiting]

Found a wet grey lump in the drum—only someone's lost sock, a doctor appointment card for sometime today (with a doctor I walked away from when he laughed at my request for testing for stuff coming up im my family's test results) and price tag/barcode scraps. Now I've a load in the washing machine . . .

For some ? reason Blogger is too damn slow to open. I gave up. Decided I'd try that text-only email posting route [which still didn't post. Why?] Decided, because I've been buried for days in the micromananagent crap of petty cash receipts and single book orders, that I'd rather put up some road accounting from this past weekend's bus run from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, from my latest almost-done journal:

10 OCT MON
Big wind this morn with the rain (and it rained heavy all nite). Dad was up 5:30 or so, so I showered early but couldn't eat that early. @ Highfield about 8 or 9 got on the bus (not bad). Two buses on the run, a spare on the side of the road. 8 am, I'm on the road again, here I am playing the traveller again, here I am yawning in my journal again, there I go, there I go . . .

It's so unusual to get this many days of continuous rain—far from the norm or storms here. No walks. Too much sitting in small spaces, confined seating. Two on at the airport. This early, it's such a fast drive out I'm amazed. It's a fast trip anyway: 8:50 Truro "N POTA", Moncton @ 11:15 and Fredericton @ "INK THIS" 1:30—amazingly quick for bus or even driving (5½ hrs) then I'm back in the burial ground of Fredtown. I should sleep some more. Am not likely to segue into amazing journalling while this head thick . . .

Fluke, or not, not believe I have images of cormorant that I want—wings spread to dry—that I can make with head facing left or right. Suitable for use, my purposes (so not an eagle—American, Mexican, Polish, German—or the insipid hearts, butterflies, and flower crap, or the japamation and yakuza carp, dragons, maidens and bamboo. I am not a knight templar, sailor, army buck, trucker, con or ex-con doing long time with nothing, nothing to do, to live for, to die for—nothing. Do not drink this. Not for handwashing. It was breaking down barriers I didn't even see as such behind the veneer of normal, the norm, normalcy. Why do we have to be so uptight, so right and wrong about things? Let it flow. Let it go. Laugh and wash it away. Keep moving. Keep lively. Play. Have fun. There's a 30' Gloosecap figure, back (ass) to the highway, in Truro Heights, on reserve land's power centre (might be larger than that—hard to tell in driving by). The bus is seriously filling up in Truro, as expected, but I'm still not doubled up. Might still happen in Oxford, Springhill or Amherst, Sackville—the potential is there. Doesn't matter. I'm here to get somewhere and I didn't buy two seats—so getting two seats anytime is a bonus. It seems that the milk-run towns will be shared by the buses. This 15594 may not stop in Amherst. People having to switch buses here before departure. Okay. Woman-student-girl now across the aisle, just over 4' tall, with purple-black polish islands on her nails, short fingers, no polish on the front edge, with bull-ring pierced nose, semi-precious stones on heavy silver rings on three fingers has a 'tude button on her purse, white lettering on black: "I make most kids CRY." Nice. Big laptop case/bad beside her. Dressed in pale blue shirt, faded jeans—black stars on translucent black socks of hose showing above ankles—a gothling dressed down for family and travel. Nice! I like seeing her. Has a below-lip piercing too—ball to match the ones hanging off her nose. Has music on—can't hear—a copy of Metalsmith magazine in had for reading—American jewellers mag? Flatware and more. Wonder if she's a NBCCD or somewhere beyond? Metalsmith the journal of SNAG: Society of North American Goldsmiths. I've drifted through daze/snooze. We didn't do Oxford or Springhill stops. Coming up on the highway's shoulder AMHERST NEXT 3 EXITS. Do we stop? Yes. Five buses atop the no parking fuel tank space—some Hfx bound. Presume the milker is still behind us on the road from Springhill. The stars are tattoos—red, yellow, green, clear flesh centres around both legs just above her ankles. With stars below her calves, her head must be far our in deep space, the earth below her feet. I've got a girl on here watching me: she's tonguing her chips while watching, staring at me, then pops them in her mouth past her braces. 12 C @ CviSion today, 10:37 am. "Flippin' Sweet" on the yellow T behind me. We've crossed the Tantramar arolling. Left Amherst before the other two Moncton bound buses. Means we offload first, and will likely end up crammed on a Fredericton-only bus out of Monkeyton. Was no stopping in Sackville. We've just rolled up the hill from the marsh and kept going. Pink long-sleeveed with bold black sweeps of crafted tatt metal/flame stylings on the upperarms. An "I get grumpy when I . . ." [something I can't read] with blue bear and little hearts on pale blue, black-trimmed, T overtop the pink. Is she another who got into fine craft jewellery because of the attraction to the metal, the music and attitudes, the tatts, the attractive aliensation-repulsion factor? Can understand that. Can relate. Though I feel I've never done so completely whole-heartedly, though with intent, I'm still there (and I'm old enough to be her father). ". . . haven't had enough sleep" ends the T-shirt message. 11 am we're at 467A exit to Dieppe and Moncton centre. What chaos awaits us here? Plaster a shut-up smile on my face to move smooth and quiet off this bus and onto the next.

shirt: Denver Hayes sweater
loc: accounting desk
temp: 3 C
sound: Joni Mitchell, Ladies of the Canyon