Hammer Drill Time

Since stenciling and doodad-ing the entryway changed things around, a wall rack for jackets was ordered as organizational support.  Organization.  My most not best trait.  But it came, I knew where it was to go, and proceeded with my small drill to zip two holes into the wall.  However, this wall was not cooperative, even with using a masonry bit, and the drill skittered sideways leaving a gouge outside of my organized point of entry on its surface.  

The outer walls and ceiling are made of concrete slab and thus are resistant to home decor whims, but this was an inner wall of plaster, or so I thought. Yet having lived here nigh on 17 years with curtains to hang, I had trotted to Sears for a hammer drill and came home with this tool that looked like it could shoot bullets into the door of a Buick.  Hadn't used it in years, and forgot how much fun it is to drill with the thing.

Pandemonium careened on two wheels as flying cats took cover from the uproar of this monster, which really didn't last that long at all, for the stubborn wall gave up and minded.  It was like drilling into butter; and sad when it was over.  I wanted to drill more, this power tool gave me well, power.  Power over substances mere regular drills couldn't manage.  Lemme tell ya, money can buy happiness if you just go purchase a hammer drill.

The job is done, but I couldn't bear to put it away, so the electrical genie is laying out in it's carrier just in case another wall gets sassy.  I am trying to think of more stuff to hang up.   Or for what purpose I could start a wall of Swiss cheese art.

I had gone to WalMart today, promptly forgetting the mollies needed for the screws and coming home with two bags worth of canned cat food, besides a part for a lamp and another gallon of white paint.   Getting into the building was precarious as I will be darned if I can't get everything upstairs all in one trip, and so was teetering because of not well-balanced plastic bags.  But thank heavens for the elevators.  Wait a minute, why are all these angry people milling about?

For the umpteenth time both elevators were out; the elderly, people with baskets of laundry, an old man with a garden shovel, and babies in strollers began to overflow, seemingly dividing by mitosis while emitting mewing sounds.  I couldn't stay and share the indignation, you can't blame them, but I needed to get upstairs.  I live on the ninth floor.  There is no elegance in hauling fifteen pounds of loot up into the stratosphere via a dull grey stairwell which doubles as a place to light up your joint.  You would think that management could paint encouraging platitudes upon a step or two, "You're almost there!", "Take heart, stalwart tenant!" "Bathroom in 54 more steps." Their elevators break down that much.

It's not such a bad thing, however, except that gravity seems to become stronger the higher you go, and the flickering fluorescents only make you think of a bad horror movie.  The noises I was involuntarily producing would have alarmed folks, and I was hoping no one would investigate because my neighbors sometimes check things out while holding a gun or by sending a three year old who speaks no English out on a tether.

The man who once lived above me, when in his 80s would take the stairs every day till the week before his death.  He was an inspiration, and I thought of him while gurgling around the corners.  Mr. Strickland, I bow to you, sir.   I made it.

End of the day, the setting light went from gold to immediate dark as heavy clouds moved in off the Lake.  There is a strong wind bringing change to the landscape by washing the trees of their yellow leaves, by scouring out the corners of summer flowers.  I toil on with painting the apartment except that it really isn't work, but a transformational event.  A letter carrier brought packages to the door and said at first he thought it looked like Christmas, which is nice, because it was made to be colorful for the deep days of the coming winter.  

Blankets have been resurrected, pillows shaken out, and last year's pajamas put in the front of the dresser drawer.  This is when the cats call a truce, for the chill allows an excuse for them to touch each other and I will find them sleeping with backs together, something that doesn't happen in warm weather.

The time change is a bit away yet, but in spite of the attempt to even things out, our bodies understand the rhythm of darkness and hunker in with additional covers and soup. Take a book to bed, read until your story unfolds, let the words lull you, tucked in and drowsy with myths and wishes.  I wish, too.  Good night.