Fetishes And Kochinas

The Year Of The Cigaret Butts. Two major pieces, or large at any rate, completely covered in cigaret butts, revolting, as they are meant to be. Interesting. Several objects that could only be called fetishes and a few nice strange doll-like things. Todd, one of the best local painters, brought in a very large triptych, each panel 3 feet by 8 feet, three figures, two nude males and a clothed female. Stunning. And two smaller single paintings, one of which is great and the other less so. Nick Gampp, "The Gamppster", brought in two very fine collages, one a quadtych (?), and a wonderful box assemblage. Lots of young artist angst, some spectacularly bad things, an equal mix of bad or absent technique, and total lack of vision. We were having a smoke, out back, in the alley, and D said that good art always implied the existence of bad art. Looking up triptych (I knew the word, but couldn't get the spelling correct) I came across triph-thong, which I assumed meant falling over your underwear, but actually means a sound sequence of three different vowel qualities for a monosyllabic word. The example is 'our'. I make a note to look it up in some other dictionaries tomorrow. A breakfast project, as I'm way too whipped to get distracted now. What a week. And this was the easier of the two weeks, starting Sunday we wander into chaos. Lily is staff tomorrow but I tell her I'll stop by, she if she needs help. The problem is artists, the talent, so many of them are late, always late, always last minute, still warm from the kiln, or the last coat of varnish still damp. We see a lot of this. Deadline is five-o-clock tomorrow, I imagine there will be a rush. I did something I'd never done, I bought a big frozen lasanga (the best, I was told, and it was on sale) to get me through a few days eating, too tired to cook and write and I knew I was going to write, drink and write, therefore needed to eat. I'll do sushi one day, probably a pot-pie, breakfast often. I never tire of breakfast, potatoes and eggs and bacon and toast, my god, my corner of heaven.

I never tire of breakfast,
potatoes and eggs and
bacon and toast, my god,
my corner of heaven.

Janus would probably be the breakfast god too. Traffic was moving slowly on the way home, a slow car on 52, if I'd had a bazooka, I swear. I just have to get to the turn-off at Mackletree because then I can stop at the lake or continue without a vehicle either ahead or behind, I can take time into my own hands, where I might stop and watch almost anything for a very long time. Matter of course. Fly the god-damned spinnaker mates, because the wind is blowing in our direction. I like that Irish guy, O'Bama, if he doesn't break a leg.