Construction

 

There’s a company called Emery and Sons that parks their trucks outside the house I live in every morning. Weekday mornings, that is. Even just from dutiful passings on the sidewalk one can pick up on a sense of solemnity most Mondays and an uplifted jubilee by Friday afternoons, and I don’t see them Saturdays and Sundays. I miss them then and I think about them–I hope they are enjoying their time.

When I see them again, they are working. They appear to be engaged in an alchemical process of transforming a penned-in lot full of hardware and materials into some kind of public works project. I imagine, in considering the humongous oval pipe structures queuing neatly, that it has something to do with the sewer–but I can’t be sure.

I’m just watching, and they are building. From where I sit, I forget that the world  is changing from day to day. I’m really mired in a few environments in my mind that I can’t seem to get out of. It’s less constructive and more sinkhole, and I wish I was more like Emery and Sons.

Granted, I know, they have the advantage of dealing in the tangible. My resources are limited to overwhelmed senses and an inadequate dreamscape. I have no real phenomena to grapple with, like corrosion, or rubble, or dust that piles when wood is shredded and a building is torn down. I have my own exhausted thought processes, and some books I always turn to, and the occasional epiphany.

Like this: I heard a set of keys clank and understood that the jingle we take to mean the world has order is just a sound.

The world escapes us, immediately and every time.

I shouldn’t have to tell you–don’t try to hold on.