mm mm 5am

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am of course wide awake at 5am attempting to think through how tf i’m going to commence salvage operations at the farm. I took today off work after all and I’m going to drive out there today.

It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, possibly.

I don’t know what to do. The building materials are all wrapped up on pallets, sitting next to the barn. I do want to move them out to the building site, I hate having them right in the middle of the barnyard. I’d need someone to do that for me, I cannot drive the tractor with forks.

Once there, I need to unfasten the pallets, pull the tarps off, and unpile the items. I know the sheets of plywood will have to be unstacked and at least tilted to let them dry, then re-stacked once they’re not so damp. A full sheet of plywood– well, like 25 of the sheets are 3/4″ thick. I don’t know if I can lift one alone. Normal plywood, I know I can move a sheet on my own, but the thick stuff, I don’t know if I even can. This may be futile to attempt. But I have to unstack them, they’re wet through surely.

I want to take the foam insulation and put it upstairs into the barn. I can use my car to move that, it’s not heavy, and then carry it up myself. That’s fine. I expect that stuff will be fine, provided it didn’t get damaged by debris.

But I know I also bought rolls of batting. How was that packaged? I don’t know. If the batting is wet…. well it can go up in the barn loft, and hopefully bake dry, but it may not actually do well. I’ll have to see. That may need replacing.

If it’s soaked through it may also be too heavy for me to lift.

There are doors and windows in that pile somewhere. I don’t know how they were packaged. If they come in packaging it’s surely damaged. Probably being wet won’t hurt a door, but I think they’re steel and will rust if I don’t at least get them out and wipe them down.

I really have nowhere to put them once I’ve dried them, all these things. I need to hope I can just get long enough rain-free to get them mostly dry before I re-pile them. I don’t know. I need this construction project to fucking happen, and I can’t do that until I get the last delivery from the lumber yard, and, bonus, now the delivery truck cannot cross the damaged bridge, so there is no way to get that final delivery of lumber from the outside world to the building site.

The bridge is very much not something I can have the slightest effect upon whatsoever. But a great many things depend on it. A car can cross it, but I do not know whether a tractor can, and certainly an outside delivery driver in a large truck will not.

So anyway. I can’t do this salvage stuff by myself and I need help and I don’t know who’ll have time to help me. And I don’t know how on earth I’m going to package it back up. Maybe if I get some spare wood pallets I can set up more storage around the building site. It doesn’t help that there are tractor implements that were left there that the first lumber delivery blocked in so they can’t be removed, so for the duration of this construction 1) nobody can use the tractor implements and 2) they can’t be moved out of the way. But this is also not a thing I can affect in any way at all.

Anyway. I should still be in bed, because I’m not ready to just get up and get into the car, but I also can’t sleep, and there’s no point lying there fretting. (Your picture was not posted)

chapter update

roche/iorveth

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yes yes my update schedule lies in ruins at my feet etc. etc. and it is all the fault of many factors, BUT

here is a chapter for Peace-Tied, and it is a full-length chapter, and it is half a scene, so it will end on a mild cliffhanger, and then I will post the rest on…. ehhhh maybe i will have time on Sunday? or on Monday? i will do my best… anyway I promise this is hilarious, really I do, and then the next one is the Juicy Bit.

so. im supposed to be already in the car and am stealing time to do this. idk i don’t have control of my life, i just do what i can.

Chapter Something of Peace-Tied, on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/32023453/chapters/80905198

“You need more verisimilitude,” Iorveth said. “I don’t judge. That’s normal. Hang on.” He stepped away, turned toward the wall– fuck, got a sword down from the wall bracket–

“That’s not–” Roche said, a resurgence of alarm making itself known past the haze of stupidity, “you don’t, we don’t need that–”

Iorveth turned back, with a tiny flourish of the sword, and held it easily, slightly-threatening. “It’s your lucky day, Vernon Roche,” Iorveth said. “I don’t want you dead. I want something else from you. Open that gambeson.” (Your picture was not posted)

alifelongpassed:All the places we bled

i'm gonna redeem the fuck outta him, the witcher

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alifelongpassed https://alifelongpassed.tumblr.com/post/656708865201668096/all-the-places-we-bled :

All the places we bled (Your picture was not posted)

some-stars:The Mill-RaceFour-fifty. The palings of Trinity ChurchBurying Ground, a few inches above.

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some-stars https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/623640734864703488/the-mill-race-four-fifty-the-palings-of-trinity :

The Mill-Race

Four-fifty. The palings of Trinity Church Burying Ground, a few inches above the earth, are sunk in green light. The low stones like pale books knocked sideways. The bus so close to the curb that brush-drops of ebony paint stand out wetly, the sunlight seethes with vibrations, the sidewalks on Whitehall shudder with subterranean tremors. Overhead, faint flickers

crackle down the window-paths: limpid telegraphy of the late afternoon July thunderstorm unfurling over Manhattan. Its set and luminous velocity, long stalks of stormlight, and then the first drops strike their light civic stripes on the pavement. Between the palings, oat-panicles sift a few bright grains to the stonecourse. Above it, at shoulder height a side door is flung open, fire-exits; streaming from lobbies

come girls and women, white girls in shadowy-striped rayon skirts, plastic ear-hoops, black girls in gauzy-toned nylons, ripples of cornrows and plaits, one girl with shocked-back ash hair, lightened eyebrows; one face from Easter Island, mauve and granitic; thigh on thigh, waist by waist; the elbow’s curlicue and the fingers’; elbow-work, heel-work, are suddenly absorbed in the corduroyed black rubber stairs of the bus. Humid sighs, settlings, each face tilts up to the windows’ shadowless yards of mercuric green plate glass. An interspace then, like the slowing of some rural water-mill, a creaking and dipping pause of black-splintered paddles, the irregularly dappled off-lighting—bottle-green—the lucid slim sluice falling back in a stream from the plank edge. It won’t take us altogether, we say, the mill-race—it won’t churn us up altogether. We’ll keep a glib stretch of leisure water, like our self’s self—to reflect the sky. But we won’t (says the bus rider now to herself). Nothing’s left over, really, from labor. They’ve taken it all for the mill-race.

In close-ups now, you can see it in every face, despite the roped rain light pouring down the bus-windows— it’s the strain of gravity itself, of life hours cut off and offered to the voice that says “Give me this day your life, that is LABOR, and I’ll give you back one day, then another. For mine are the terms.” It’s gravity, spilling in capillaries, cheek-tissue trembling, despite the make-up, the monograms, the mass-market designer scarves,

the army of signs disowning the workplace and longing for night … But even as the rain slackens, labor lengthens itself along Broadway. The night signs come on, that wit has set up to draw money: O’DONNELL’S, BEIRUT CAFE, YONAH’S KNISH … People dart out from awnings. The old man at the kiosk starts his late shift, whipping off rainstreaked lucite sheets from his stacks of late-market newsprint.

If there is leisure, bus-riders, it’s not for you, not between here and uptown or here and the Bronx. Outside Marine Midland, the black sea of unmarked corporate hire-cars waits for the belated office lights, the long rainy run to the exurbs; and perhaps on a converted barn roof in Connecticut leisure may silver the shingles, somewhere the densely packed labor-mines that run a half mile down from the sky to the Battery rise, metamorphic, in water-gardens, lichened windows where the lamp lights Thucydides or Gibbon.

It’s not a water-mill really, labor. It’s like the nocturnal paper-mill pulverizing, crushing each fiber of rag into atoms, or the workhouse tread-mill, smooth-lipped, that wore down a London of doxies and sharps, or the flour-mill, faërique, that raised the cathedrals and wore out hosts of dust-demons, but it’s mostly the miller’s curse-gift, forgotten of God yet still grinding, the salt- mill, that makes the sea, salt.

–Anne Winters (Your picture was not posted)

update update update

i'm so tired, but so much less anxious

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Made it to the farm. unicornduke https://tmblr.co/mVpJNDQaUH5cHEJCTfGjjzQ​ showed up to help. as i was discussing with my mom what to do, BIL emerged from the other room and said “why don’t i get the forks on the tractor.” so we went out to the building site, figured out how to make room, then investigated the pallets, moved two of them out there, moved the fiberglass insulation batts up to the barn loft, moved the doors up to the barn loft, and realized the final pallet, containing windows with fiberglass insulation batts on top, had not been touched by the flood, protected by the three upstream pallets.

So all is well. I earned that shower, and owe unicornduke https://tmblr.co/mVpJNDQaUH5cHEJCTfGjjzQ​ bigtime, but it’s taken care of. It really doesn’t look like anything needs to be re-purchased. The insulation is damp in a few places but will dry in the attic, and there was a large loose tarp to put over it so the birds won’t shit there.

Meanwhile a guy was there re-graveling the trashed driveway, and he watched us put the first door up into the loft, and was like “nah let me help with the next one” and then CLIMBED ONTO THE TRACTOR FORKS and rode them up to the loft so he could hand us the door without it snagging.

I took a picture but I don’t think it conveys that this man is approximately twelve feet in the air here. like just for the record there’s a picture drawn on the forks that says not to do exactly this. But he did it and it works. (Also: he’s booked solid til September but came right away today because he knew the farm needed the driveway done for tomorrow. he’s done their driveway before and knew he could shuffle his schedule to squeeze it in. he spent all day on it and didn’t break for lunch, but he DID break to come do this. Greg the Driveway Guy!!) (Your picture was not posted)