Even If It Is Broken, Can You Fix It?

My grandfather fixed shit. Not necessarily his shit. His affairs were always in a rock-solid state. His choices always resulted in shit that worked.

Instead, he would look for things that were broken, just so he could put them back together. Bikes, door-hinges, VCR remote controls, washing machines, dining room table legs. It didn't matter to him what it was or what was wrong with it - as long as it was broken, so he could drag his found treasure back to the garage and get to work on it. He was at his happiest in that concrete and wrought iron bunker.

At the beginning of the 20th Century, a group of folks in and around Paris started a movement called 'Dada'. In part, Dada was defined by art that turned the useful into the useless. In Melbourne, towards end of that same century, my grandfather made an artistry out of turning the useless into the useful.

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And A Damn Bunch of Lakes

Say you drive a Chevy - say you drive a Ford:

Say you drive around the town 'till you just get bored:

Then you change you mind - for something else to do:

And your heart gets bored with your mind and it changes you.

John Prine, "All the Best"

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I've put that lyric in a post before. I've put a whole bunch of John Prine lyrics in posts over the years. But, John passed away this week and I've been listening to him a lot these last few months.

I had this whole preamble typed up to slide in here. About what John Prine meant to me and what I think he made me do. But that ain't fiction and fiction is why we're here. So... let's cut straight to the story:

Prob is the Spring of our Discontent

Now is prob not the best time to say this. But if I wait too long, I'll prob forget the best way to say it.

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The humidity in New Orleans makes for bad skin. Especially on your forehead. Little red spots appear above the temples late in the afternoons. By evening they've settled in like a tree with roots.

I can't quite remember how they are the next morning. I'm too distracted to stand up in front of the mirror. Distracted by the counting of the hours I was awake in the middle the night, as I try to calculate how many hours I spent asleep.

New spots appear again in the afternoon. So, I guess they don't care if I'm checking in on their progress or not. I know the feeling.