Back in Virginia, I painted with a fellow named James; I didn’t like painting houses, but I liked working with him. I think he enjoyed working with me, too, but I know that he often found me amusing.
I think he sees me as an idiot savant, capable of talking at length and depth with authority about various issues in philosophy, politics, psychology, but then plant my foot into a bucket of paint, or some such foolishness.
One time we were painting a house out on Maiden Lane, owned by this old woman who drank heavily; it wasn’t the most fun job we’d ever worked on.
On the final day, we left by the back door rather than the front, and walked through the gate at the side of the house towards his truck after making a last sweep of the inside; we weren’t carrying any equipment, and we weren’t in any hurry. I was wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled fairly low; and I suppose I should mention that James is about a head taller than me, so he saw the two-inch pipes coming out of the side of the house not quite six feet above the ground. I didn’t: I walked right into the lowest pipe without even slowing down. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
It took me a minute to answer, but I guess I was.
I was mad at the pipes, but it was really my own fault: there it was, plain as day, any fool could have seen it coming but I didn’t. Why do I do things like that?
I think he sees me as an idiot savant, capable of talking at length and depth with authority about various issues in philosophy, politics, psychology, but then plant my foot into a bucket of paint, or some such foolishness.
One time we were painting a house out on Maiden Lane, owned by this old woman who drank heavily; it wasn’t the most fun job we’d ever worked on.
On the final day, we left by the back door rather than the front, and walked through the gate at the side of the house towards his truck after making a last sweep of the inside; we weren’t carrying any equipment, and we weren’t in any hurry. I was wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled fairly low; and I suppose I should mention that James is about a head taller than me, so he saw the two-inch pipes coming out of the side of the house not quite six feet above the ground. I didn’t: I walked right into the lowest pipe without even slowing down. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
It took me a minute to answer, but I guess I was.
I was mad at the pipes, but it was really my own fault: there it was, plain as day, any fool could have seen it coming but I didn’t. Why do I do things like that?
It seems that today's doodles were unconsciously taken from this.
My mistake: I've lost track of the time. Yesterday's doodles.
2 comments:
It was coherent, until the time references.
I think Brian's phrase was "obscurely self-referential," and I've been trying to reduce that; it seems that in this case I've failed. Sorry.
On Wednesday I was doodling "exploding dog" cartoons instead of taking notes: all my notes were stick figures looking out windows (except for a bibliographic reference to this book). I was clicking through Sam's cartoons late at night, until I realized that it was actually early in the morning. And then I went to bed.
Well, after posting to my blog. I still have my priorities.
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