Steady Rain

Saturated again, lowlands flooded, rain for the next five days. Well stocked at the house, but as Thursday is Janitor Day at the museum I get a few more things, an extra bottle of whiskey, bag of shredded frozen potatoes so I can eat breakfast several times a day, loaf of sliced wheat, for grilled cheese and tomato soup breaks; back up easily in 4-wheel drive but it will be a Nantucket Sleigh Ride down. Easy enough day at the museum, no one bothers the guy cleaning toilets. We break out the ten foot ladder and enact a repair, paint releasing where wall meets ceiling in the stair-well, but as we haven't found the leak, we know what we do is temporary. We think we know where the problem is but need several dry days to clean out and recaulk the joint, failed, where the EPDM roof membrane goes up a few feet on a brick wall and is capped with a shaped metal trim piece, which is caulked into a grout joint on the wall. Awful mess. I was mopping the main gallery when Bev called me over to take a hillbilly couple up to the High School Art Show, their son's girlfriend had won an Honorable Mention, so I walked them through the Impressionism Show, I swear, wheeling my mop bucket. Felt good. Man of the people. There was a guy at Janitor College, Ambrose Decalion, we all called him Dimwit, he had to take Mopping twice, never could get the mop-head where he wanted it to go. We used to joke that probably spoke volumes about his love life. College can be cruel. But so can life.

Spring rain
on the metal roof
sounds like Bach.

He had to take a night janitor job, he was just too stupid to put out in public, and there is a line here, we studied in Hermeneutics, what might best be called "putting the best foot forward", first impressions are important (maybe, we could sidebar here, but I'm on the clock) and you don't want a Dimwit interfacing as your first contact. I'm good at first contact, I control the ground floor; I've noticed that no one is ever upset with me, there are implications my opinions are worth consideration. I knew Slippery Elm was used for spit balls, the first thing I thought of, I clipped a branch, gummed my fingers, and threw a wicked slow pitch that god couldn't hit, on his best day. It's that bad. Or good. The thought-trains rumble through my brain. I have the thought, wonder, do I know anything? Probably not, the crows certainly exhibit more knowledge than what I possess. I defer to your greater sense of understanding, what is meant. I lost some lines here, technical error, they would have tied this to that, you'd see. You don't miss a trick. What is meant. Hard rain, more like Miles Davis.