“Soooo, what’ve you been up to lately?”
“Soooo, what’ve you been up to lately?”
Late night, drinking screwdrivers, music on, playing single-player Mahjongg. Thinking. Remembering. Mental cleanser. Mind slowed down enough to give space to synapses. Chance to make connections. Listening to new VNV Nation “Noire”.
Reminds me of going home, to Texarkana. Staying for the weekend at mother’s house. She heads to bed, I head to the streets. Windows down. Get lungfuls of Red River air. Drive through stratified layers of fog North of town. Cranking VNV Nation. Dancing in driver seat. Constellations spin outside the windows as I drive 90 MPH on back roads. Something bigger, something spacious. Domes of light. Geolocation. Needs.
Thinking big thoughts.
I seldom do that these days. Life in Austin is always immediate. Cumbersome. Disruptive. Interruptions and imperatives telling me what’s next. TODO lists. Needfuls. Terrible hungers. I miss slowing down to think.
If I moved back to Texarkana, I would be a big fish in a little pond. I say that, but really, Not Really. I know myself too well. But I would pine for the bigger world out there. For places like Austin. San Francisco, Toronto, Berlin, Italy, Anywhere. Small man in small town dreams big, hungry for possibilities. Wants growth. Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time”. I was never meant for small town life. But maybe I was. I don’t know. Fuels my hunger and starves my desires. Mixes me up to question what I really should be doing to make things made. Big towns drown me out. So who am I?
This album, plus this solvent, plus this space I’ve created for myself, are really, really doing me in. Connections.
The joy of failure is that I am forced to learn from my mistakes. It feels joyless now, but really it frees me from the burden of choosing to learn. Either I learn and improve, or I will no longer be burdened with finding joy.
Work began this weekend to implement a portable 40′ tower mast so I can raise inverted-V and vertical antenna elements out in the field with no other support structures around. I’ve seen it before, and I know it’s a viable option. I’m using army surplus camo netting poles (they come in fiberglass and aluminum), and some modular brackets that I picked up in previous hamfests.
With some measurements of overall mast height, 37-ish feet, and the anchors which are 30 feet out (roughly 80% of mast height), our buddy Pythagoras tells me the guy rope length should be 48-ish feet. So today I measured and cut 3 guy ropes, and marked their length by the foot, with orange safety ribbons every 5 feet. Attached them to rings and everything.
But something was wrong with my measurements and math somewhere. The ropes had too much slack, so on the four attempts to raise the mast, I could not get them tight enough, even after shortening them by a foot each time.
On the 3rd attempt, the root of the mast came loose from its tent peg, the bottom bounced up, and I couldn’t get my right hand out from under the mast before it jammed into my thumb. Thankfully I had gloves and a hard hat, but it just wasn’t enough.
Unfortunately, I destroyed a mast section on one of those drops. You don’t realize just how heavy 60 pounds of mast material is until it’s 40 feet up and falling to the earth at increasing speed. Crack.
And when you get 10 sections of it in the air, you realize just how wobbly and unwieldy it is, and just how dangerous the whole exercise is.
After the fourth lift with a replacement section, I gave it up. Live to raise it another day.
I have some thinking and physical recovery to do. I need to build a pivot base to anchor the mast. I need to recalculate the guy rope length with all the brackets, rings, and rope stretch factor. I need to find another rope tensioner solution — these Mastrant-brand friction claws are sketchy and I’m not trusting them any further for my guy ropes. I need to either use a shorter mast, or plan and cut some guy ropes for halfway up the mast for stability.
And for the love of Marconi, I’m not doing this again without a helper. It was stupid doing this alone in the field, with nobody to hoist ropes or call safety.
Hard lessons. Back to the drawing board.
Turned on my synthesizers for the first time in two years.
Now is not the time to be alone. The frustration kills me.
Imagine a land where the capitalist ideal is stretched so far, prisoners sue for and win the right to choose which for-profit private prison they will go to.
Where penitentiary placement representatives do outreach marketing to convicted individuals while they wait between conviction and sentencing, courting them with pamphlets and promises, going into broad generalities about their prison’s social environment, pod occupancy, commissary rates, work release programs, yard amenities, all in a push to get the highest-paying criminals for a larger cut of the state’s money.
Like a college admissions outreach team, but for criminal justice.
Wouldn’t that be something?