Nails in my pocket and hammer close at hand

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I’m  moving things around. Still. Boxes, books, photos… God I was young then. Almost shimmering with unfaltering love.

I could pile everything in the garage and start all over again. But there isn’t enough time. I have a pile of new library books, 2 calligraphy books making their way through the mail and So You Think You Can Dance tomorrow night.

I take down a painting and hang something else in its place. Repeat a couple of times. My hands are a business.

After a while I’m left with a bunch of little holes in the wall.  I spackle and touch up with paint. The cat bites at the phone cord until I chase her away.

It’s fresher now. I feel contentedly wired.

Later Sleep betrays me.  I listen to “Weird Fishes Arpeggi” over and over. “Phantoms I follow to the edge of the earth. Everybody leaves if they get the chance.”

New Age wisdom would say this is symbolic – this patching and smoothing and feathering of the nest. Repairing my heart. Patching the holes , sanding the rough spots, refinishing.

New Age wisdom is bullshit and I’m no handyman. I hit repeat.

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