Today I found out that there is no graceful or manly way to 
carry two 10ft lengths of pressure-treated lumber and ten 
6ft lengths of pipe insulation across a windy Home Depot 
parking lot. The lumber is hard to balance, and the pipe 
insulation are like pool noodles but more limp. I would have 
kept the flat cart, but the wind threatened to blow the 
ultra-light foam noodles all over, so I had to bundle them 
under my arm and let them flop around while I tried to not 
drop the wood.

The house is almost sold. The buyer came back with their 
inspection requests; among them were requests to replace 
some rotting wood in an access doorway under the house, and 
to put insulation on some pipes.

Because of this house-selling business, I haven't had much 
time to write, or do anyting artistic. Since this is my 
"art, writing, music, language, and more" phlog, I call 
upon the imagery of a middle-aged man carrying a load of 
limp pool noodles and some precarious lumber as "art." I 
suppose it's up to the one peddling the stuff whether or not 
it is art.

I'm also having trouble finding time to finish Schismatrix. 
I'm in chapter 7, with Lindsay's first wife just coming back 
into the picture. Hopefully I'll get to read a bit before 
bed; I'm curious how that will play out.