This morning I ran into the city to drop the car that went to the shed, and the Swedenborgians after the potato, egg, green chile.

And retrieve my old more or less reliable red pearl space ship and gas it, tank some water, scout a deal on batteries, review the terrain where I will pick up the truck in a week exactly–no you can’t park here son and I know nothing about where you can, because who would ever ask such an obvious question?

Turns out I’ll have to walk two-tenths of a mile, but that’s better than a mile and a half, at 111 °F. I can deal. I’m not that old. Yet.

This should be the next to last move ever because Lawd knows I will be.

In the traditional hour of sunset I clean out a week’s worth of Kali box scooperclumpen. Like with beard trimback, this is a job to do outside, when the sun is dipping behind the mountain but before it’s dark.

Fold some laundry. Maintenance, interpersonal. This is the first day of the last week before shit gets real. Please pray I use it like a good and real man ought. There are July bills and a few more remedy spills. There is what there always is in terms of warm water in the tub, warm water in the washer, warm water in the dish sink. But the time for letting any of that stop me from the real work of a considered life is long past.

Ojo del tigre, sonny. There is no time
Like the present.