Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.


Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


decay & ruin
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Like my brownhouse:
   roof jacking commences
Saturday, May 19 2012
I spent most of the day jacking up the roof of the greenhouse, starting from the position it had been in for the past three and a half years and managing, bit by bit, to get the north end raised up about forty inches. The south end of this same roof rests on large hinges, meaning that beyond those hinges, the roof actually swiveled downward as I jacked up the north end. There is a limit to this downward swiveling; below a certain point the main roof runs into a smaller roof over the greenhouse entry door.
I began the roof-raising process by attaching a temporary ten foot 4 by 4 girder under the rafters and then jacking this up with an automotive bottle jack placed in its center. When I'd raised the roof the increment of an inch and a half, I'd slide in a two by four under each of the two ends of the temporary girder. When the increment was high enough, I'd take out the two by fours and use a four by four. At a certain point I could use concrete blocks for shims. And then large squarely-cut cross-sections of yet-to-be-split tree trunk intended for firewood. Whenever the jack reached the end of its throw, I'd lower the load onto the stacked supports, and build up a new higher base for the jack to sit on. By this evening, I'd reached the limits of what I could stably stack.

The original disposition of the greenhouse roof earlier this month.

After a day of jacking. You can see how the south end of the roof is limited in its downward pivot by the roof over the greenhouse doorway.

Detail of the stack of concrete blocks and firewood chunks under the temporarty girder.

This evening Gretchen and I picked up Nancy in Hurley and drove down to Michæl and Carrie's house down at the old Ukranian camp in greater Mettacahonts (west of Accord). Carrie was graduating from a teaching program that she's been enrolled in since before I knew who she was. The party was a surprisingly big and somewhat non-casual affair, complete with a rented tent, meat options for those who couldn't fathom such an experience without them, and even a ban on dogs (though a number of people didn't get the memo on that last one). I mostly just hung out with people I knew: Deborah, Nancy, and Tricia, though Gretchen (who, along with Deborah, had made over a hundred cupcakes) mixed it up more. The party was just uncasual enough that some of the attendees had been assigned jobs, so it was a little odd when we kept getting table service by friends-of-friends wanting to take our dirty plates.
Some of the friends-of-friends had prepared foods that for some reason they came around and offered to us individually instead of putting them out on the buffet table. This was great when those foods were fresh radishes or bok choy, but when they were deviled eggs I found myself having to affirmatively turn them down. This was for two reasons: 1. I am vegan and 2. I have always considered eggs revolting. One doesn't like turning down foods enthusiastically offered, particularly when it's a farmer offering her own produce. When I said no, she tried to argue with me that the chickens were free range happy chickens, and at that point the only way to shut her down seemed to be "I'm allergic to eggs." I have a feeling that half the allergies in this country are as bogus as the one I claimed tonight. And why? It's the only excuse against which there can be no argument.
At some point Michæl started an enormous bonfire in a pile of scrap wood (plywood, naily two-by-fours, and other building debris). Soon there were thirty foot flames, though in an hour the whole thing had been reduced mostly to glowing coals. If there had been any bunnies living in that pile, Michæl extends his apologies.

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