Detached and Disarranged

I'm tired.

I'm detached and disarranged.

I want a roast beef sandwich.

What is writing?

It is impossible to write without putting yourself into it.

No matter what it is, there must be some element of truth in it, because you put yourself into it.

But you are not truth.

I dursn't start philosophizing, it won't end well.

I'm detached and disarranged.

I'm tired.

Don't listen to me.

Just bring me a sub sandwich with everything except tomatoes.

I need salt.

I'm tired.

I'm detached and disarranged.

On Top, On Edge

Have you ever watched a house being built from the ground up?  I have.  It's remarkable.  I was there when my dad built my aunt's house, start to finish.  I think I was about ten years old at the time, so I don't remember everything.  But I know I was all over that place.

Running through the trenches before the foundation was poured.
Scootering over the slab, dodging bits of rebar.
Watching the walls go up.  It was like seeing someone's skeleton being put together.
Writing my name on every bit of framing within my reach.
Perching at the top of the stairs before the second story was in, looking out over the lagoon.
Snickering at the dead seal washed up on the shore below a high-class housing development.
Looking on as my brother perfected the art of getting a running start on the second floor to launch a rock all the way down to the water.
Sitting cross-legged on a stack of plywood in the master bedroom, eating a sub sandwich.

But the best part?  The best part was running the scaffolding.  It was simple.  A wiggle out of a window, a jaunt across the garage roof, a hop onto the boards and I was off.  The guardrails were tall; I was never afraid.  I liked being up on top of things.  It was a curious feeling of being on an edge, yet feeling perfectly safe.  Adults were generally astounded at...well, I'm not sure what.  It might have been my fondness for it, or my daring.  They might have just been shocked my parents would allow such things.  Whatever it was, it surprised them.  But Dad just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  Every one of us kids has grown up on the jobsite and we haven't lost one yet.

30 minutes of thought

writing with no clear thought of what.
just wanting to write.
needing to put down words in any shape or form.
it's a good feeling.
wanting to try something new.
typography and pictures and glue.
captions and quotes.
free-form thoughts flowing in short sentences.

a gold-sealed envelope on the desk.
blue and white stripes and the standard elegant oak leaf.
"we're delighted to invite you..."
there is a typo on the inside left page.
"to the 2010-2011 honor society recognition dinner!" 
exclamation point.
are they that excited?
there's a typo on the inside right page, too.
it's all quite ironic.
are you going?
"...a chance to get to know each other."
what fun is it if you don't know anyone?
but the restaurant in question has good food.
perhaps it's worth it.
last night's question about the place is still unanswered.
the trick is knowing who to ask.
which is why one texts one's grandmother.
a quick scroll through the contact list.
(why is his email still there?)
a sudden burst of laughter in chat about the black and tan reference.
two minutes later there's an answer in the inbox.
"we did the redo but not the original."
family businesses are such fun.
sunshine calls.