Constitution of the United States of America

Hank Williams Jr. is on the stereo now. Not one of my favorites. I much prefer his son and even his dad Hank the First–either one is great compared to Bocephus. A country boy can survive. A good ol’ boy from Oregon, Tony, is our leader behind the wheel and a black guy, Paulie, is riding shotgun as I type this from the back seat of the truck on our final mission to pick up the last loads of this big wood. The Dixie tunes though, it makes me wonder what’s going through the black dude’s head right now. Alot of hurt feelings still linger over race relations. Those are some feelings I cannot relate to. Maybe if I were Irish I might have a slight clue; or Jewish.

The three of us are driving along the Western edge of Lake Tahoe and the morning sun’s reflection across the water is post card worthy. The water is perfectly still and a few boats sit out there waiting for some recreation time. We make comments and jokes about the assholes who can afford real estate up here.

Before typing and before Bocephus got loud I was reading this book on the proceedings during the Constitutional Convention. It’s called Plain Honest Men. It was 1787 and about half the men participating in the convention were economically dependent upon slave labor–even George Washington. Two and a half centuries later we have a black President. This sequester thing going on between Congress and the President–wow–what pivotal times we’re living in. Only in America.

“Folding Time” Goldfield Journal #22

While society folds, painting in a white trailer in the desert, I’m burning old wood scraps to keep myself warm. It’s as if we’re watching from afar here in Goldfield. It’s like thinking about the folding of spacetime.

I hung the United States’ flag today in my living room. It was mostly to cover my weather-proofed window job. It came in an order, this flag, in the mail, till this morning, sitting in a box on the porch and I guess the dogs found it. I picked it up off the porch this morning observing its pure colors and complex layout. It felt foreign. It’s a shiny fake one. I wish there was a flag that just stood for America.

My house is a little warmer now. There’s a lot to think about here. Getting rid of this little mouse that shits all over is a priority and then there are still leaks in the windows. There are leaks in the roof too and I gotta’ get the water working here for sewage.

The other day I fixed plumbing in Michael Mark’s house. I’m fixing my door jamb. I’m growing a beard.

It’s focusing on what this time is about. Painting is drawing me in. I’m writing too.

To fold spacetime, one puts a kink in the fabric of the cosmos, but one stands still while doing it. Maybe that’s where I’m at.

I keep painting; the world folds around me.

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