Through vigorous volunteering, I managed to be one of the people who forked the pine bark mulch out of the dump truck. It was absolutely beautiful stuff, fragrant and sweet-smelling, steam tattering from the warm, moist surface when I broke the pile open with the pitchfork. It tumbled around my feet as I forked it, gently warm and scratchy-soft. I was wearing shorts, so I could feel its heat when it drifted around my boots.
The morning was cool and bright, and standing ankle-deep in a pile of composting, gorgeously resinous-smelling plant matter was about the nicest thing I could imagine doing.
Shoveling seven cubic yards of it was still hard work, mind you. But I was still home by noon.
I told netcurmudgeon that it reminded me of a Richard Brautigan poem:
netcurmudgeon's response? "For your next trick, are you going to nail Jello to a tree?"
I love that man.
And after a little consideration, it struck me that cling wrap was the solution to both problems.
That poem has always seemed to me to be a pretty good description of my writing process.
--Tell her to find me an acre of land
Between the sea and the salty strand--
Anyway, according to Fitday, 90 minutes of pitchfork work is worth 814 calories for a me-sized person.
So, uh, I'm gonna go have a beer and a bean burrito and see if my blood sugar normalizes. And read misia's renaissance chapter. And then maybe try to get some words.