a spontaneous autobiographical jotting, "we were people that cut grass." Or Zen and the art of operating a weedeater(Fl20)."

In being wedged into the role of a regular person, I learned more of what was expected of me by the world at large, and how to fill that role, to do the common thing, to contribute, to joke and laugh at jokes, and when my fishing pole end dipped, I knew there was something special coming for my supper. Mother would prepare the catch and peel then fry some potatoes. For a day, for a few hours, life was good and I was square with the universe again.

It took nearly 40 days to scrape up the 29.99 for a new pair of shoes.  All the while, I was aware that there was a hole in the sole of my current pair, disconcerted by the whole thing, but taking a kind of peaceful acknowledgement that it was entirely my lot to replace those, and I summoned my patience, no matter heat of summer, wind or rain.  I was non-plussed in the entirety of the matter, and I kind of looked down from a bird’s eye view, my spirit soaring while I watched, from the outside, myself patiently working along the metal fabricator’s discard pile with sputtering string trimmer, making a work of that, while doing a work of earning money, and the morning’s work was a work in itself, then that compiled into the day’s work, for which we would be paid sometime that afternoon.  It was then a piecemeal assemblage, tidy little moments in time, while covered in sweat, flying lawn clippings becoming stuck to my sweaty cheeks, forehead, forearms; little pieces of work that combined to bigger works, as if to slave on state mile marker 43 in the name of the entire system, to lay one rail in the great slug-notch towards the opposite coast.  Distracted by all the little tasks, and adding them up later like a dismal part-time accountant, there was a kind of perspective there, to not sacrifice the moment for the sake of the whole work, to not lose the moment, either, but in the having of an existential angel food cake while chewing on a piece of it at the same time.  Perhaps then, a stupid pride of ownership, while not realizing nary one jot that what I had hold of was pretty much not special, and, if I but glanced around in any direction, I would see people that had all that and more.