looking for places where I am supposed to be.

I woke up from the yearly depression ten days ago. There's been many centimeters of rain, and I never like the moist way we do it here, but these rains are the ones who signal the leaves what to do. 

The birds have been noising again, and I can hear the frogs again. The window is almost always full-open when this begins. The lights are an impossible god.

I joined the local makerspace in Wilmington. There is a fully functioning and completely equipped woodshop. I would type that sentence twice, but it barely matters. I found a home, I think. I am supposed to be there, I think.

I am looking for places where I am supposed to be.

Forks in trees.

I can't say what I see and how I feel. To do that with accuracy would sound grandiose. The use of 'grandiose' alone is the wrong shade of paint. Sunlight. Forks in trees.

The first time in many years.

First bicycle ride of the season. First bicycle ride in more than six months. My yellow-crated machine cruised slowly along the familiar roads beside the creek. On the first hill, the front derailer needed sneaker-assistance to drop to the small chainring for the first time in many years.

Try not to be a piece of shit.

I bought fifty bucks of 2x3s and now I'm listening pretty loud to the Dilly Dally live at SXSW set that i've been loving for a few years. I'm fifteen bucks worth of 2x3s short for the lumber rack i'm trying to slap together. I'm sorry, they/them are trying to slap together. What I meant to say is we/wham. Ah, fuckit, just try to be nice to people, and try not to be a piece of shit to them.

I'm going to make it work.

The garage has been a disaster forever. After my dad died, me and mom drove home in the middle of the night, leaving professionals to do whatever has to be done with bodies that are dead. We pulled into a garage full of two motorcycles, two Vespas, a trailer stacked with shit nobody wants to deal with, and shelves and cabinets packed with baggage of every kind. 

I'd like to end it there. 

Two years and something have gone by, and we got the motorcycles and Vespas out of there. And the trailer, and the stupid convertible are gone. It felt like it took forever, but now that stuff is gone. I poked at some of it with screwdrivers and wrenches, and tried my best to get good prices and make sure the vultures knew to fuck right off.

I've successfully taken one person's consumerism bullshit horde, and turned it into a new bullshit horde of my own. Finally there's a bandsaw. Either last month or tomorrow, I'm going to make it work.

The sum total of today.

Got a bacon bbq burger at Wawa and sat in the parking lot listening to NPR. Never seems to be a happy story out of those people. It's the station of breaking news about the fucking over of the defenseless, but it's the most consistent squawk on the dial, and aux-in has been broken for as long as I can remember. 

Wawa has burgers now. I had to pinch the patty to confirm that they'd done something to heat it up. Confirmed. It was slightly warmer than ambient temperature. Aside from puking, sweating, and watching shit on Netflix, that was the sum total of today.

What we are all doing.

Yes, yes, yes, I'm here. I can hear the frogs chirping in the pond which isn't far from the window in the room where I'm sitting on a mattress on a floor.

My name is Pixy now. Part of that is because it is an objectively better name, and I guess partly just to mix it up and see who blinks. Genderfluid they/them.

I'm $8000 in debt, but I have stocks worth like $30,000 that aren't convenient to sell to cover the cost of all the woodworking tools and alcohol I bought during covid. The plan is to sell books online to fix the problem, but really I'm waking up from smoking a half ounce of weed while binging Narcos for a week.

I got a lot of money from the covid shit and claiming self employed. Which, yeah, pretty much self employed.

Now it's time to march forward like a moron which is what we are all doing.