Earthquakes scare me. They’re the only certain natural calamity we’ve got in Northern California. There are wildfires, of course, but we live too far down the hill for that. There are floods, but we live too far up the hill for that. Mudslides, no; hurricanes, no; earthquakes — oh my yes.
So I BANG BANG BANG that will be the nail gun. So I realized that ROWR ROWR ROOOOOSSSSRRR that will be the compressor that powers the nail gun. So earthquakes, yes, I was EEEEK EEEEEK EEEEEK the familiar sound of a great big mother-lovin’ drill.
Earthquake retrofitting. That’s what’s happening at my house. I can hardly hear myself think, but I have already written these sentences, and I, and I, I can’t go on. I can’t. Dear god Sheila I am in this hellhole of noise and I can’t, what, I don’t even know what I can’t.
I had this really good essay about teachers, and this other really good thing about love letters, and I was gonna kill those suckers, I swear, but now it’s all BANG BANG BANG inside my head. There should be a union for the unemployed. We have rights too.
So I am wishing you peace and serenity and I myself am going to check into Campton Place and order room service and listen to Tupelo Honey over and over again. ROWR ROWR ROWR oh shut up and go away.
Your friend, Jon.