and I have to air the padlock innards to get into the shed. I enjoy the mechanics of the task, the assemblage of tools I’ve known since I was a kid, the balance of springs and catches in their lattice of forces, turn this to make that happen. The code of the universe laid bare. If only I could direct my days and months like that, pull the right levers to arrive at my envisagements. But my levers are snapped or slipped their cables it seems, there’s little progress to mark for me other than growing older. Even my pipedreams have lost their piquancy. I’ve tried nine things all shot down in flames – springs and catches in words and stories – time to hammer out the tenth.
