We’re fresh out of lids, so I’m drinking fresh dust—

Tim Hortons coffee is mixed in there too, but it’s Wednesday morning, I could not sleep all night, and I’m seeing through walls—

Thanks, in part—

And in spite of—

The dust.

Old lumber newly exposed—

Derrick, Mattias and crew are on ladders, knocking drywall off walls—

Vladimir (Ecuadorian) is working with Lucho (Chilean) breaking slate tile, cutting open spruce plywood sub-floor beneath, searching for consecutive joist pockets unimpeded by pipes, ducts, and wires in the ceiling below—

Seeking some suitable spot for our provisional stairs headed straight to the basement, and once it’s been found and then framed, we’ll build one staircase more, this time from main floor to second.

Provisional—

It sounds so much smoother than temporary.

Here’s our addition:

We’re adding eight bedrooms—

Nine bathrooms—

Gutting and renovating six more—

Tacking on a 3 car garage—

And clearing way for an elevator—

Which, for reasons I have mixed feelings about—

Has to rise through this happy house’s existing mechanical room.

Its ceiling space, its jammed but still neat, and looking up— 

There’s 4 trunks of ducts (from 4 separate furnaces servicing only this side of the house), the main plumbing line, four plumbing drains, three hard-pipe natural gas runs, three primary electrical panels, four or five low voltage pony panels, plus all the line voltage wires powering 10,000 square feet of existing house—

Managing to all overlap but not intertwine—

Cluck cluck cluck—

Cluster-fucking the space—

To chicken-shit states of free-range insanity…

And it all has to move, to open clear path for the elevator. 

Believe it or not—

With six months to finish the main floor wheelchair accessible wing—

And fifteen months total to complete the rest—

By day three of the project, two thirds of the house has been sectioned off—

Allocated as living space for our friends the homeowners, as they wish to remain on the property throughout the construction.

In respect of these homeowners, our plan was always to build site dedicated stairs (suitable, so provisional) within our own section, all to establish their living space privacy and avoid tracking dust through the house. 

And the homeowners have spoiled us. 

This coffee I’m drinking, it’s courtesy of their generosity.

Two cartons a day of Tim Hortons coffee—

UberEats keeps delivering.

It has to be from the homeowners.

It has to be.

Because if it’s not—

If it’s been coming from somewhere else—

Perhaps, say, from a parallel otherworldly dimension—

That could indicate that this house is haunted—

And soon workers will start disappearing—

Potentially as tribute—

Unvolunteered—

To replenish the strength of our most merciful Coffee Roast Ghosts.

With our second construction project so close nearby—

We can’t tempt the spectre of powers we simply don’t understand.

The risk is too great.

Each time I briefly exit the house with my lidless coffee—

I pour out the top eighth of liquid—

The absolute least that I can—

Refraining from affronting our hosts—

To filter the dust that keeps drifting in.

Sawdust, mortar dust, O.G. ordinary regular dust, plus dust from drywall, they’re all so thick in the air, come closing time, I heavily slap my jacket and pants—

Freeing enough dust to cloud clearest dusk—

Then hop in and warm up my truck. 

The plan for this evening, have a quick bite to eat, review structural drawings as preparation for tomorrow, then shift gears entirely and continue refining a long-standing screenwriting project, which I develop as much as I can every weeknight, but solidly stays my main focus each every weekend. 

Tomorrow—

I fully expect—

Plenty more dust—

With no guarantee on the coffee—

But as far as today—

Past the house and its owners—

My headlights dispel—

All harboured ghosts—

In the heaviest haze—

Of this winter’s fog. 

Learning to make strange things work—

It’s fundamental, so crucially transferable and worth it to have. 

Tough to first see—

But not so tough to later on find.

Eleanor, 

As always—

The children were right. 

From This Day to Night,

Good morning, good day, and good night.