Considering Options

Shoot myself, for one thing, the fucking cicadas are driving me crazy. A major ground-swell this morning, as though they sensed the coming rain (I'm sure they do), and they all decided to go off at once. What they're saying, gotta be something, interests me, but god, at that sound level it's hard to think. The sound is so large, it's like a wall of noise, then you start to hear modulation underneath. Barnhart should score this for 20 violins. asho:

stillness--
sinking into rocks,
cicada's cry.

Town early, before the rains. Note that the spillway is barely flowing, just in the center, where the concrete is worn most. Stopped to feed old bread to the ducks, they also sense the storm, rumbles to the west. Pollen and catkins are thick on the water, trout and small-mouth rising to the bugs. I take my car-cup of coffee to the picnic table at the dam, roll a smoke, think about building dams. Might build a small one down in the hollow, catch some of Low Gap Creek in a pool large enough to raise frogs. Assured the frozen food person at Krogers this morning that I would buy the entire case, just get some more of the French Frog Legs, great thighs, my goodness, four of them are a meal, and they were cheap. Lots of little things to do at the museum, and D and I talk about many things, the next turn-around (too much, too quickly) and how we might build some moveable panels for the Richards Gallery, to add wall surface for flat shows (shows that hang on walls (as opposed to shows that don't)), but mostly I'm busy with janitorial duties. Sara catches me wiping the tops of the frames in the permanent collection. I had cleaned all the plexi in the artifact room and the glass on all the watercolors in the permanent collection and was using those cloths to clean the frames. It's a sub-routine, that I do, and she said -I didn't know we did that- caught herself, and said -but, of course, you would know.- Another line of storms. I'd better save this. On the way home there was a young couple necking at the picnic shelter, I was going slowly because I had meant to stop, knew the spillway would be in spate, diffused light, everything shades of gray. The silhouette they presented was Hallmark perfect, it was the perfect ad for something, voice over, a little music, I drove on by, didn't want to scare them, weird, tall, skinny guy getting out of a truck with a gym bag. Mallory's course, at Janitor College was extraordinary, "The Hidden Spaces", where we learned to use white cotton gloves as an absolute indicator of when something was dirty. I remember him shouting -clean looks after itself, what you're looking for is dirty!- That kind of stuck with me, you know, given the shit that goes on. You're lucky if you have even one good teacher. What does that say? The National Average is less than book a year. Might be a good time to look for a cave.