Plip. Plip. Plip.

My studio is in an ancient mill in NH. We share our building with a large cast of characters, and along with them, the sounds of their daily activity. Right now, the people in the abutting unit are using some high velocity air gadget. Fluffy piles of stuff indeterminate filters under the fire door. We have to vacuum it daily. Cut that shit out. In the basement room beneath my kiln room, the boiler is howling away. I've seen it. It looks and sounds like a locomotive and reminds me of my college days in the Boston subway. When it's howling, we have heat. Heat in NH is good.

The guys across the hall are dragging pallet after pallet out to the loading dock. When I'm on the phone, I have to ask whoever I'm speaking with to repeat themselves. The freight elevator lies directly off of my shipping area. It's quiet now but last week, we heard its occupants discussing Nicole's boobs.

So, with all of this activity going on all around us, you'd think I wouldn't hear the steady plip of water dripping from the ceiling: Into a bowl in front of the printer. Into three storage bins lined up across the cushions of the couch. Into a bucket at the end of my design table. Into a trash can next to the sink. Onto the counter top and across the floor near the refrigerator. Into a bowl on the other counter. Onto the floor in the shipping area.

In a minute, I'll pick up the phone and call the property manager. Like I have almost every day since we moved in last month. He will answer in his usual Oh My F.ing Word, Get Over It voice. Send someone up to the roof (or not) to shovel off the snow that will keep fricken falling because it's winter and we live in NH
Plip.