Dear Wigleaf:
 
Plaster repair is tricky. Spent the past two days wielding trowel and mud. A smooth finish takes "touch" and I don't have it. I live in a rambling Ohio farmhouse built in 1869. Wife and son are in Oklahoma visiting Grandma. This small college town's empty with students gone for the holidays. Days are gloriously long and lonely. Listening to music while I work. Writing. Reading. About the fourth day I started to chat amiably with myself, cracking jokes, singing. Makes me wonder how I'd hold up in solitary confinement. Maybe the sort who chats amiably with himself is just who kicks ass in solitary. You can read books in there, but the lighting's harsh, and coffee's terrible. Can't stroll into your kitchen and make a sandwich. Anyway, I'm here alone for another few days. Feel free to stop by. Knock loud, I may have headphones on. Or stick your head in the door and yell. It's never locked.

Sincerely,

Phil






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Read PB's "The Beasts."

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