Sawdust

There is no apparent exit from this sealed white painted room. This is the place I always find myself when I can't get started writing. I don't like the smell of paint. 

I went out to a school today to attend a meeting with a room full of professionals who find themselves unable to keep a young boy in class. The adults don't have it all figured out, kids. Not by a long shot.

I've got plumbing problems. In my bathroom too. Maybe tomorrow I'll unscrew the trap thing-a-ma-jig and see if that solves it. I did that once twenty years ago and nearly threw up. I guess it's probably due. 

She had to sit in the room with the family as they watched the video that documented the events leading up to the sudden death of their loved one. She's carrying a portion of their grief now. Those who do this work well seem to know how to take it on but have no idea of how to let it go.

Last night, I stopped off at a brewery on my way home. One of those craft beer places that have sprung up everywhere. It's spacious, barn-like. I went to the bar, selected my beer, found a table for two and occupied a chair for one. The moment that I started thinking this wasn't too bad, this guy gets on a microphone and initiates his version of bar trivia. Everything about him annoys me. 

I can't help but feel that the events surrounding me are someone's idea of a practical joke gone on way too long.