My intensites are running at intense-even-for-me levels this pre-dawn. Again, the visualization of high intensity electrical lines runs through my psychosis. Not the intensely regulated voltages which are currently powering the laptop upon which I currently type and the cell phone charger which is silently feeding the phone which will ride on my pocket, as usual. Yes, dear, I know. . . ALL of my technology is antiquated. My phone could be MUCH smarter, as could my literally heavyweight laptop. Perhaps when one of them breaks I will let you show me all the latest greatest shops you have so carefully researched. Yes, dear, I know you are ready NOW. Perhaps after I finish moving this demolition pile. Well just it all. . . I am sorry you are bored, Dear.
The component within the visualization which calms my racing thoughts this morning is the usually white cannister to which the overhead power lines are connected to distribute the power to a smaller collective of buildings, et al. Don't let the distance fool ya. That cannister is larger than it appears from the patio. The intensity of the power supply would literally fry every one of our gadgets if we plugged into it directly. Film makers love the dramatic effects of having one of those lines hopping freely around an accident scene. The folks who have to catch that power line and put it back in its place are seldom begrudged the big bucks they are paid by the drama artists who are working their vision of that accident scene.
Before I find myself lost in metaphor again. . .
Yesterday was a busy day. It is stillnae time to pack up for the 14 hour to drive the Grand Party, but a surly releif from all the wait time the Gnarly Old Dickhead (G.O.D) has been torturing me with. It started comparatively early with the resonating knock of the brass door knocker on the front door. My groaned AssUmption was that it was one of the local Romeos who are convinced a foxy older woman like me needs their manly protection. I am running out of polite ways to say, "Fuck off, shithead." I pulled myself from whatever DS entry was interrupted by the knock and was reviewing my list of ways to say, "Fuck off" as I stomped to the door to pull it open and. . .
I'm sorry, K. Looks like I mistook you for somebody else again. . . Thank you for your forgiveness. What are you doing in those clothes? Not even *I* would wear that outfit to a shopping mall unless I was formally contracted to do so. Legal approval required. You want to scuff your manicure? The Lord does, indeed, work in mysterious ways.
K and I were in danger of the sin of pride when we stopped for lunch on the way back from dumping the first load. I ate almost all of my lunch!!! French fries whelm me easily. Still, I finished most of them. We were feeling fit and ready to roll as we headed back for the next load. As I prepared to back Boy Toy through the still open gate in front of the demolition pile, I was harshly reminded that this is a wetland region. Watch that mud. . . You toying with me again, you Gnarly Old Dickhead? I ain't your fucking play pretty.
The drama of getting Boy Toy out of the mud eliminated the possibility of a second load. He is free now and in position to finish the journey between the now closed yard gates. K promised to be back around the same time today. I wish I had noted what time that was. . . No big. It will unfold at the speed of life.