early morning wake-up

I've been working on _Hush_ and thinking very much about holes. Holes in narratives and in people and in spaces. And Loralie saying how men are obsessed with making holes, and how they are almost as obsessed with filling them. Potholes and such, but also holes in women. And how what's best is when a man can make and fill a whole at once. These narratives have holes in them to demarcate the place of violence, of trauma. And as I work and think and live within the idea of these holes, some men start ripping up the street in front of my place. I was wondering yesterday "Why? They repaved the whole stretch of it two years ago." To which Ben answered that they're putting in gas lines, like they've been doing on Sherbrooke, leaving a gash in the street for the past month or two now. "But why gas? Isn't that really expensive?" He says natural gas isn't but for having heated with natural gas before, I don't believe him. Standing at the window gazing at the machines making these holes, amazed at them and standing there admiring. Meanwhile, naked and tangled in my own white sheets, I'm thinking of Loralie and of holes and I'm swearing over the racket. What's the idea of making so much noise at 7:30 in the morning? With this heat and now this noise that forces the windows closed, I'll have to start thinking of finding some other place to work during the day. Damn hole-makers.