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Friday, Dec. 07, 2001
I drive west in the mornings now.

It's where the jobsite is. Far west of here. And all my compatriots in the construction industry have work in the west also. Yesterday, I was reminded how much building there is going on in our sister city to the west.

An army of trucks, from every conceivable sort of business, begin roaming the road at dawn and stream down the highway, over a bridge, through a tunnel, then down the highway some more. Hundred, thousands of us. We sit, at 65 miles an hour, sipping coffee. Preparing to make the day and have something permanent to show by the end of it.

I listened to David Bowie on the radio. He made a suggestion. "Let's Dance."

under the moonlight, the serious moonlight

We fly west to the techno beat. We race to where the light will come through windows and show unfinished business, the dust of the trades, the piles of materials, the hope of an owner, the dreams of those who designed it. They leave it in our hands. Entrust us with the task of creating art which shelters you, which warms and cools you, places to go where you can cry or dance or make love.

We do this. Hands and tools and minds. We leave joy and grief and family behind and go to the fields where the dirt and the concrete and the steel lay waiting for us.

Let's dance, indeed.

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