As springtimes bloom, 2025 has been like no other, January through April telling it like yo, hey, kapow. I’ve traveled a little bit because I am teaching only online, two sections of technical writing: to Fort Lauderdale for Try This workshops, to San Diego for Is.’s spring break, to Georgia for a few days visiting with my longtime friend and mentor and former college coach. Here at home, February delivered intense storms, the ice that brought down as crashingly as crystal chandeliers from vaulted ceilings coniferous tree tops, the rain less than a week later that flooded and washed out parts of the driveway. There went the gravel. Closely following storms of the year or decade or century on rural parcels are new, unplanned-for workloads, some of which I have handled smartly by hiring out, much as we could afford, and some of which I have shouldered to the dull everyday drumbeat of two or three hour blocks. For storm cleanup, the outdoor labors meant hauling brush, cutting and clearing limb snarls, the brambled imbroglios that if you are not careful will shred you with thorny surprises. Wear eye protection. Go slowly. I’m not complaining but recounting what has been. Close calls. Blood-drawing cuts and pokes. Even tallied a slip and fall, the third time in three years for a bona fide tumble, as a small, perfectly round piece of wood rolled from beneath my footfall and planted me, heavy as a stone, on my back.
I roofed the older chickens’ run, framing it and fastening corrugated metal over the top, then built on those beginner lessons to wrap in Tyvec and corrugated metal a few corners of the upper shed where particle board sheeting was naked to the elements. The front shed has the same issue, exposed sections on the back side whose composite materials are aging, flaking. I’ve spent a couple of outdoor working sessions this week wrapping sections, fitting and affixing furring strips, readying it for the corrugated metal that will come next, possibly this weekend. I am optimistic that the metal will be the easy part, except for one especially complicated corner piece I will need to cut so it wraps around the gutter and juts with an acute angle with a neat tuck under the eaves. The metal work is easy except for the hard parts. The sharp edges, they cut too.
And then there is the pond, which is truly more like a diverter-fed estuary whose waters detour from the creek only to accumulate and, albeit pooled and slowed to a trickle, return to it again. The pond’s concrete retaining wall is cracking and aging, upheaved by moisture. When doesn’t water win? I started with skim coatings of hydraulic cement, mixing the slurry in a five gallon bucket. But in one section of the pond, the original blocks were split, so I branched out to other kinds of cement, picked up a mixing tub and masonry hoe, cut braces to hold the cement in place, and gave it my best attempt. This was all new to me, this so-called formwork, and it was achingly evident right away that hand-mixing cement is top-five among the heaviest of multimodal composing practices (right up there with shoeing horses and stacking boulders). On Monday I hand mixed six bags of Quikrete, filled the ad hoc form, reinforced the corners. Now, it cures. A post-preservationist would second guess my attempt, a brazen postponement of the retaining wall’s inevitable collapse, instead, musing, “something there is that loves a wall enough to let it crumble completely.”
Repairs of this sort–exposed particle board on the shed, fractured pond retaining wall–are ‘cusp gones’; they are almosts, though not quite in the same way Barthes wrote about photographs of his mother in Camera Lucida, the image teasing at life, at vitality. Repairs to these weathered structures extend and renew a once-built thing; repairs of this sort traverse time, a paratemporal practice (beyond/around, protective) not unlike mending, not unlike retouching artifacts Least Recently Used (LRUs). Call it maintenance, familiarly. This is home ownership, too, and the care accorded to living in a place, but it is also etched with a variety of mindfulness differently circumscribed in relation to time. I mean that mindfulness oftentimes fixates on the present, on now; but this paratemporal practice is a function of stewardship and distributed cognition (writ expansively, as corporeally and as worlding). This practice follows the beckoning of cusp gones, involves us in their somehow carrying on. As such, it extends gone-noting, summoning from attention and repair, in tandem, recomposing in palliative patches with purpose.
To end here leaves off not quite having sketched the outline. I sought to recount these outdoor projects and to suggest through them a variant of mindfulness less preoccupied with the present and more attuned to a blend of attention and repair at that hazy, disappearing contrail where a gone goes dormant. For in the many references to Paul Klee’s 1920 Angelus Novus, mascot of modernity ‘progressing’ while looking backward at the wreckages, harms, and atrocities, we ask when we cannot sleep at night, ‘to where or to when is the angel of history directing its attention now?’, a heavy game of imagining looking together, imagining being in this together, with cherubim and fictions, with pond walls and old sheds, I Spy.
