Is it embedded in the hierarchy of concerns that must be identified first to do
this work, where sequence is all, dependent on the sharp remorseless spinning
things, from the forces applied to pounding: boards splinter, boards twist, knot,
resist - there is a lot of fucking resistance to overcome, to master, to contend and
now I doubt I ever heard Jason say get me that fucking palm nailer, because as a
rule, we revere the palm nailer for nooks and corners where a hammer has no
hope and the fucking Bostich needs a foot to face the work. Nor was it ever said
its time for fucking lunch. Lunch I don't think fucking is said much.
We're kind of human again.
If I had to choose between the groan I emit when lifting an 80 lb bag of mortar
or a fuckin to ordain my resolve, I think of these 53 years halved, that kid was
a hot knife through butter. Mine to wonder how a dogged groan has become me.
I conclude it is good I can still do this work, though I would the men were better
spoke.