Dispatches from the Miskatonic Bakery

mondays are my days off. and still my mind inhabits a bakery, another bakery, perplexing because i don't want to work in another bakery. ever, probably. stir stir stir the stygian nougat made toothstain black with coloring paste. those mental exercises though, of attempting to mold a vocation out of a simple occupation, can't last. instead i wonder about fantastical antiquarian book shops, heirloom apple orchards, alchemical perfumeries, time with animals and on trains. only a dam' fool wears black to a job slinging flour anyhow.
so, what do i do?
i've accepted the unsavory fact that i am what is called nowadays a 'scanner'. i do admit to loving the cronenbergian taste of the term. we scanners are interested in many things, deeply, and as such have no lifelong calling. so why the intense interest in disparate topics and still no way to make filthy money that doesn't cause the soles of my feet to itch? gross, gross, unfair, whimper.

would that i'd been born with a sweet voice. no, a strong voice. and i could earn my keep belting out dirges for the children who went up into the mountains. spare accompaniment, dark basement renditions while i channel borrowed mystery chords from those stoic greeks.
i am a homebody who loves travel above all else. the great conjunction seems to be made up of touring. living mobile.

that's not to say that i'm not grateful to be making any money at all. i've been in Those Times where there is none to speak of, money that is, and it's misery-making. one's own money in the glitterycity is just a necessity. for happiness.
i can see how this might turn into a consumerism blog. beware, biweekly posts of pastilles and broken down farmhouses and circus girl vintage finds and vinyl records and ceramic cups and roasted chestnut tea.
beware.
Beware.
BEWARE!