Relative Size

We get these files of images for every show, so we know what to expect and what piece is by whom, but there's a problem that seems universal in the field, nothing to indicate size. No little ruler, or pack of cigarets. Many of the pieces for the Wood Turning show are quite a bit smaller than we expected, some are larger. Unpacked the last piece this morning, then set pedestals, but didn't install the pieces because the peds were all in tough shape. D went off to try and restore e-mail (no one could send, everyone could recieve) so I had a chance to fill, sand, and paint all the tops (I can touch up the sides later) and we should be able to set the show in an hour tomorrow. Then labels and lights. Really looking forward to lighting this show, all the pieces 3D, and great finishes. It's going to look wonderful. Sand and touch-up the gallery walls. D getting slightly deranged by the end of the day because of the computer glitch, AND the air handler for the AC isn't working, the drain for same, and we spend time mopping up copious quantities of water (20 or 30 gallons) because we have to leave it running so the repair guys can see what's wrong, fucking Catch-22, and then they call and say they can't make it back over until tomorrow morning, so we mop one last time and shut the whole system down. Argh. And, of course, hot weather upon us. Nice slow drive home, to decompress. They'd cut the verges on Mackletree last week, and today cut along Upper Twin, lovely smell and beautiful, I stop several times, picking up trash, trying to identify common weeds, drag a dead dog and a dead crow off the road, to give the scavengers safer pickings. Too tired and too hot to cook, I make a couple of tomato and sliced onion sandwiches, just mayo and black pepper, a berry and banana smoothie. The curing loin has started sweating profusely so I rub it again, turn it. Then sluice off with a bucket of water on the deck, rub down hard with a towel, wrap it around me, get a drink, roll a smoke, answer a couple of e-mails before I even get up to put on some threadbare Dockers and what remains of a tee-shirt when you cut off the arms and the neck band, hot weather writing mufti, a fan above, a fan behind. Consider listening to some music but blow it off in favor of bug-song and the white-noise drone of fans. The great news tonight is a message from the Master Scrounger, Kim, from Tallahassee, offering a week of his time for the installation of the Wrack Show: there is no one better, when it comes to crunch time, to have on your side, and Glenn will be here filming; I only fear I won't have time to cook for everyone, it promises to be a chaotic time, but we'll navigate, eat pizza, whatever, at a certain point, the show is everything. Kim and I learned this in Boston, under Sarah Caldwell, commit to the impossible and make it happen. I don't assume my role in this lightly, the chance to throw some great people up against each other. I expect to get something to write about, some food for thought, a kind of bizarre reunion. Maybe we should contact Fritz and Suzanne, get the whole sick crew together, no one would believe us, George, Dierdre, that crew from the late 60's through the mid 70's, was amazing, we could do anything, ANYTHING, there was nothing beyond our grasp. One of those rare situations where certain talents were collected, Black Mountain, SUNY Buffalo, the hills outside San Francisco, where shit happened and everyone stepped it up a notch. I don't even want to be there, I've never attended a single reunion, I like being alone, hunting and pecking at the keyboard, with a drink and a smoke, but it feels good, some times, to work with someone other.