Painting

Painting walls seems to be one of my more effective sorting tools. It is a comparatively simple activity which allows my thoughts to ramble freely through the repetitive motions while leaving a fresher smell and perspective in its wake. An ideal compliment to the tedium of sorting through the repetitive, continual cycling of the yaddahs of the blahs inside the psycho-baggage car of my birthright.

I'm still at the ranch and still not feeling inclined to finish the northward drive to the river region. The notion that I need to wait out the current paradigm shift in my river dreams before finishing that drive continues foremost in my thoughts in that arena. The seeds of that dream were planted during my desperate need to escape the circumstances of child prostitution, et al. They are, perhaps, my oldest and most enduring dreams. I didnae buy a townie claim in the river region. I bought a base camp to serve in the further development of the river dreams. A town is a town is a town, no matter the flags flying over the town, the language being spoken by the inhabitants or the regional customs practiced therein. The inland delta of the river region is a natural wonder unique to the planet on which it lives. That natural wonder cares nothing about the five state flags planted in various spots throughout the region.

The paint job which Hubs and I started this weekend is geared toward converting the old, long neglected dairy barn into a honey barn. Hubs is awash with fantasies of turning the old pasturization room into a honey extraction room. My engineering background can easily see that potential. In fact, I might have even planted that particular seed, myself, within the report from the inital survey I performed between Oct 2016 and March 2017. In the hope of establishing the spirit of that conversion, we decided to cover the over-seasoned traditional barn red paint on the exterior with honey colors. The base color I am currently plying doesn't look too much like honey, but I am hoping the end product will look more like a honey comb than the jars of calming goodness we see on our shopping expeditions. We see. . . Works in progress. . .

Triple digit heat season has arrived. I subscribe to the notion that there are only two seasons in the sub-tropics: Summer and August. August has arrived and it is the lethal season here. Heat stroke kills far more macho constructos than construction accidents. Especially the macho constructos who boast of the heat tolerance they studied during their Wisconsin childhoods. I am currently brow-beating myself for wasting the cool minutes of dawn on typing this entry instead of painting the walls which will be burning in the Southern Great Plains summer sun in a few short hours.

Tote that barge. . . Lift that bale. . . Hope they all go straight to. . . Hail, hail the gang's all here. . . What the fuck do we care. . . What the fuck do we care. . .