The place I’m calling home for the next eight weeks is getting quite clean in mental bandwidth terms. There are still a few bags to fill. There are still a few piles to address. But it all makes sense at least. The only thing wrong with it is that it won’t last, and that I’ll be retreating back to what was once sanctuary soon.

The place I call my house, in other words, a currently uninhabitable place.

I let myself drift toward sleepiness hoping for a nap from seven in the evening to three in the morning, leaving me plenty of time to pack and get to the Tinyfest. I turned off the pellet stove, and the Internet. But as soon as my head hit the pillow I was assaulted by the image of a dead refrigerator and I bounced right back up again and went outside and burned one. Then I came back here to the more durable sanctuary of the blank page to pour out my botheration, so grateful that it is always here for that purpose or ones more noble.

I’m going to kill that refrigerator because it’s a matter of survival, a fight to the death between it and me.

My weapon of choice is still a nebulous image too, but I’m leaning toward that table saw.

There must be some way to hacksaw out a space there. It seems impossible.

It’s not.

That’s what I tell myself.

My hope is that this theory so full of promise will be enough to grant me the peace of sleep now.

It’s eight. There are still seven hours for it.

Catching up companion piece posted under 21 Nov if you care to.