I lost my digital camera, I think. It was wrapped in a boy-scout smokey-the-bear hanky, last seen on my van dash, next to the open window, outside the gas station. I left my phone at my new job, on the edge of the stainless sink, in the darkened kitchen stuffed with vintage rootbeer flavoring. I left my calculator watch at the lake where we went swimming, in the weeds along the edge of the water, where we left our clothes, where they got wet in the rain, while the thunder tore the sky, as we were swimming. Without time devices, I have no alarm for the morning. So I stole an analog wind-up clock with glow-in-the-dark numbers and a cheap plastic face and real ringing bell from Fred Meyer and now it sits ticking on the oak cupholders next to the steering wheel. If the clock runs fast, says the slip of paper that came inside, move the regulator towards “-”. If the clock runs slow, move the regulator towards “+”. As humans we long to be such simple machines. In the morning this clock will tell me when to go to my new job, which I have not lost yet. It seems a miracle that I have it, that I’ve had it for three days now, and each day I count and recount this chicken, and the chicken grows more real. I really have a chicken. I really have a chicken. Most likely, the first instant I write about the job on this blog everything will change, making me self-conscious and embarrassed at my own sheer humanity and the fluidity of my life. We all would feel the same way, if we all wrote it down and put in on the internet. It grows tiresome, this exhibitionist recording. Up, down, back, forth, this, that, and this other thing. When I find my digital camera, when I find my calculator watch, when I collect my cellphone and when I have enough money to buy a pillow for my bed, a two-burner propane stove and a cast-iron skillet, then I’ll take some pictures of the flowers I spend all day watering next to the hay meadow that overlooks the entire world while the sun shines down on the backs of my hands and tell you about my new job.