...
You don't seem to understand, or care, that the tub is the key thing, the lynchpin, my means of cleaning more than just my physical self. I might yet be able to become the kick boxing champion of the world if I could only soak away the aches and pains and inflammation and attendant difficulty working the switches on this infernal meat machine.
The sun came out this afternoon. Everyone leapt to go out and do their chores. The whole neighborhood was down in Crescent City at the bank and the post office and the pharmacy and the grocery store. One gorgeous afternoon, after weeks of the most oppressive and psychedelic weather. Upon my return from town, I noticed that one of that line of redwoods did NOT make it through. The entire top third of the tree snapped off and dropped behind it and into the creek. This would explain the loud crack I heard the other night.
It sounded like someone had lopped off the corner of my house, but the corner of my house was demonstrably still there. I wondered if it was siding, but didn't wonder enough to go out in that mess to see. I figured it would keep making horrible sounds if that were the case. Well, it was the tree. Fuck. It was the tree.
I went into the garden and plucked off all the broken branches, pulled a few weeds, picked up all the stray roofing blown from the neighbors' place.
But it has taken a spectacular amount of effort to get myself up in time to do all this. I cannot save the world if I can't be awake when it's happening. I cannot save the world if I don't have my tub to meditate in. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world.
I could only be a thousand times better if I had the damn wherewithal to get the basics handled.
.
