Pistachio Poisoning

Damned D came over yesterday, work on the Wrack Show, hurricane clips and purlings on the shed. He brought a six-pack and a pound bag of pistachios. Needless to say, after work, while drinking too much too early, we ate pistachios like men possessed, amassing neat piles of shells, he at the table, me at the island, while we talked. After he left, I must have been a little drunk, because in addition to my neat pile, there where shells all over the floor, like an upscale bar, jesus. According to Boostin, quoting Cicero, a story about Simonides (considered the father of the mnemonic art, and the first poet to accept payment for his work), who was asked to chant a lyric in honor of the host at a banquet in the house of Scopas in Thessaly. However only half the poem was about Scopas, S got sidetracked or something and the other half was about Castor and Pollux. Scopas was pissed and only paid Simonides half the agreed price. A servant comes in and says their are two young men at the door to see S, he goes out, no one there, of course, it was Castor and Pollux, paying their half for the poem, and as soon as S is outside, the roof of the banquet hall collapses and everyone else is crushed to death. When the grieving families come to collect the bodies for burial honors, they can't identify the mangled bodies. Simonides can remember where everyone was sitting and thus identify which squashed person is which. Interesting article from Neil, seems Middle School Custodians in NYC make more money than teachers with Master Degrees, but, of course, they must clean up a lot of vomit. Interesting note, a thought and calculation while taking an emergency pistachio poop at the museum today: if I used the toilet there every day I work (and it is a warm place to, you know) I would increase my water use by 50%. Water is the oil of tomorrow, clearly everyone should compost their shit. Farmer's Market today and I bought some vine-ripe tomatoes from everyone's Uncle Ronnie, and dine on two tomato sandwiches (heavy on the mayo) and a heavenly sliced tomato with a drizzle of very good balsamic, a goodly sprinkle of pepper, some juice still on the plate, so I make a couple of small cucumber sandwiches (with butter) and clean things up; for dessert, some very ripe brie and a few olives. Excellent summer dinner. On the road tomorrow, Columbus, for the Wood Turning Show, and we're excited. We've been told that it is really well crated, and we do enjoy proper packing. I can't wait to see a bowl insured for 20 grand, it's gotta be a nice bowl. Going back, how books supplanted memory, this is a big deal, and now another leap; printing codified language and destroyed the oral tradition, and I can't remember squat now, because I don't have to, just a key word and the internet. But this past weekend, I was telling D, I built a tower of books around me, the history of books, the history of bookshelves, the history of libraries, books on extinct languages, language acquisition, wild children, I'd think about something and remember I had a book about that. Over the years my readers keep me informed, why else would I have a book about bookshelves? Coming home tonight I had Carma's ceramic piece on the seat beside me, a piece that defines my concerns for a certain period of my life, call it a tile, call it a cartoon, a conceit, whatever, it was on the seat next to me, my goal was to get it home unbroken. I stopped at the lake, put my groceries in the bed of the truck, and wrapped the piece in a blanket. How do I say this: in the gallery it was one thing, in my home it is another, larger than life, I think this is the best piece she has ever done and it's mine. I'm deeply flattered. I really don't deserve that kind of attention:

Three crows,
never mind.