Simplified Hydraulics

What ends up where. Glenn's Drainage, of course, which extends to everything. The quote he left on the napkin pile, one of you asked, was from Gaston Bachelard, "The Psychoanalysis Of Fire", "We have only to speak of an object to think that we are being objective. But, because we chose it in the first place, the object reveals more about us than we do about it." So the show reveals more about the preparators than about the objects that make up the show. I can live with that. Take down the Turning Show tomorrow, "Far From The Tree" and start clearing the space for our show, "Not Far From The Tree". Start hauling sticks to the museum on Saturday, another load on Sunday, meet Kim at the museum. Tomorrow B has agreed to help me solve the stove-pipe mystery, not a mystery, really, as it is clearly a clog of creosote somewhere in the system and must be excised. I don't often need help, but help others enough that I can call in favors. There's a work-station at the museum that's not being used, sort of out in the Carter Gallery, and there's a computer there. Thinking I might start using it, open a working file "Flow Patterns In An Art Museum", keep notes there, immediate notes, might be interesting, interest me, at any rate. As the station is in a gallery, I could record snipits of conversation, museum sound-bites. I could do a survey of everyone at work, work out an average for how much personal business everyone on the staff does in a day, and take that many minutes to write. The janitor should have personal time too, he has a life. Just because he doesn't have a desk doesn't mean he's not a person. What? maybe thirty minutes? I have occasionally written 42 of my single-spaced wrapped lines in thirty minutes. Not often, but it has happened. I could write a large book in a year: "The Janitor's Chronicle", "Behind The Mop", "Everyone's A Critic", "The Curious Case Of The Dirt In The Corner", and I could glance over my right shoulder and see my favorite Carter painting, his Mona Lisa, "Serendipity" at will. It leaks a kind of innocence that screams of sexuality, like dear sweet Emily. I love this painting, I need to write a post about it, that would be in the book. Sara and I had a brief conversation about commas today. I use too many of them, but I'm trying to draw distinction, and commas are a tool, I use whatever is at hand. Decide I'm going to cut back on the commas and leave more up to you, three or four a round and I could be shooting par. You shouldn't have any problem with this (going to HD) because you get me from the start, just another... and I stop there, "just another" and I pause, just another what?... I meant for this to be transparent. Sorry if it's not.
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Signage

I mentioned B had said that if there were any words posted about the show that they should be from my writing, Sara agreed and has been rereading me, culling mention of wrack. I'm of two thoughts, one, that the show doesn't need any signage, and two, anything that helps the viewer is all to the good. Undecided. Have to wait and see what the show says without any overt saying. Maybe a stapled stack of postings on a pedestal outside one of the doors, to take home. "Some Notes On Wrack", "The Wrack Effect", "Objects From The River", "Drainage, Obsession, And The Debris-Field", "Some Sticks", "Below The Floodwall", "Theories Of Attachment". Something. D on the road today, taking the last show to Dayton, I fulfill some janitorial functions, change filters in the humidifiers and boost the relative humidity upwards from 25 to 35%, which is good, like to hold the winter at 42%. Gets dry fast when the boilers kick on. Talk about old tricks, I do so many things without thinking about them, found myself today sitting in a chair in the Richards Gallery, I must have carried the chair in, but I don't remember doing that. I know what was happening, since forever when confronted with a specific task in a specific place, my method involves staring at it for periods of time. I looked at where my stairs are for six months, they were complex, took a long time to wrap my brain around them, attachment was really an issue. The Saga Of Natural Edges, looking around myself, everything that can be is a natural edge. I prefer them, they're closer to the truth. Had the thought tonight that I wanted to build one more house, the house of my dreams, no straight edges, so I could write about it. Even if I didn't actually build it. I'm feeling a possible fiction here, I could just work it all out in my head, then write about it, and not have to do the physical thing. Avoid it altogether. On the other hand, it's good to stay active, and there's this unlimited pile of posts and beams at the boneyard for the veneer mill. It's so tempting I think I'll spring for the cost (a case of beer for the fork-lift guy, on a Saturday, and $100 for Booby to make the trip with his small log-truck) and get a load up here, the worst that could happen is that I'd burn them and there would be five of six cords. I'm thinking, though, that if I got a load of them, two or three would catch my interest, and I'd probably be engaged, thinking about attachment again, consider loading, run some numbers, realize I could do this in my spare time for free. I don't even speak for myself, but I could do this, either way. It might be better that it was never built, only imagined, but it might be better if I actually built it. I don't know, like with the signage, there are more questions than answers. Just realized I could frame this, in a gallery, in a way that would be spectacular, the actual thing. Passing interest, sure, I could do that. I'm already intrigued by these future things, what did you say your name was? Could we talk later? I'd like to build a house in the main gallery, an actual house. I think we could do this, I'd call in some favors, surprising how much I'm owed, I don't keep track, but evidently people feel they owe me. OK, fine, lets turn this into something. You thought I meant I thought I knew something about what was being said.
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Acetate

Third of the four wine tastings falls during set-up for the Wrack Show and I need to get the little books assembled and sewn. D out sick, came in to format the newsletter, looked like shit warmed over, we sent him home (after he'd gotten the newsletter ready for the printer) so I'm on my own. Two qualities of acetate, it is clear and it is slick. I've bound thousands of books, literally, but these are the most difficult I've ever dealt with. Only 36 of them, I keep reminding myself. The booklets are collated and folded, but I need to fold the acetate, first, there is a fingerprint problem, which I solve by wearing white curator gloves, second, the bone folder marks the acetate, so I use my thumb, which works fine, except for losing several layers of skin even through the gloves: it's hard to fold acetate. We're using nice paper but it isn't book paper and is very hard, so I have to punch holes, which is fine, but the acetate slips; finally I punch just the booklet, and poke holes through the acetate with the needle. Consider that a hole is a void and acetate is clear, try to find that hole, visually impossible, I work like a blind man, finding the hole, by feel, with the tip of the needle. To my credit, I get faster, Pegi takes sympathy and threads my needles (the linen thread is too thick, the paper is too hard, pushing the needle through is almost painful, and there is a point, when I'm bringing the thread back through the center hole, that I push the book against my chest, and, of course, I stab myself, twice. Little punctures, and fortunately I'm wearing my black Obama Tee-shirt. Don't get them done until after lunch. Why acetate? Because for the white wine tasting we used white covers, for the red wines we used a red cover, so it seemed correct to use clear covers for the sparkling wines. It's not a cardinal rule, but I seldom reread myself, I remembered getting cut, black-out, last Friday, then sending a longer piece Saturday and Sara mentioned she liked it, so while dinner was heating, I reread it. I like it, it covers some bases. The tenses don't match but it says something. In narrative. Doing and telling are almost at odds, things are present and past, for me, in a very loose way, it's the way I remember, to be able to tell you, later, what I thought I saw. Kim is actually coming, to help with the installation, I still can't believe it, but I send him directions. My stove isn't quite right, I need a consult with B; I build a small fire and damp it under control. Glenn left a napkin, with a quote from Bachelard, on top of the pile: it's still there, I lift it with my left and take a napkin, underneath, with my right. As far as I'm concerned, this napkin will always be on top. Object indeed, what's the fucking subject? His point exactly. I know him, he's weird, but makes points occasionally. I'd want him on my team. If I was choosing. I guess I demand a certain amount of control, this installation will be a test of that, what I need, small change, if I find a penny on my daily rambles I feel lucky, making my nut, balancing things. It's a penny after all. Copper mostly. Recycle. Nickle, fuck me, white metal. They're on top of this, what they mean, what I meant is lost in translation.
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Mock Assembly

Maybe not mock, we like it so much it might stay. It's inside the house but it could be an exterior wall. Six foot wall section, way too busy, but it was a photo-shoot, and we wanted to show-case some interesting pieces. We cheated, screwed the rails to the posts, the crooked sticks for the window jam, and lashed over them. We only had two hours to set it up. 49 feet of wall in the installation, could be done in 25 hours, I've allowed 32. We'll have a week to "dress the set", the final step in setting a stage show, re-do, re-position, and clean up our mess, which will be significant. Certainly could leave the wall, an extra, as it doesn't interfere with any other planned walls; clever of me that I didn't take any of the really good sticks, not wanting to use them in a mock-up, so as not to hurt their feelings. One thing we noticed, as predicted, was that certain sticks want to be used certain ways, dictating what they will do. Easy enough to build the wall and secure it in place, "the wedge and jamb" principle. The stumps make great pedestals, the two sculptural were lovely, mounted and lit. The Bull Head floats about four inches above its pedestal on a piece of rebar. A few balls. D brought a sandblasted piece to hang in the window opening, I hung the feather-dagger off a rail upper right. Looks good, looks like it might mean something, you know, if someone took the time to put it together, they must have had something in mind. Kate arrived to photo and interview right at noon and we'd been done for a hour, standing around, talking about it, retreating outdoors for a smoke. She is attractive, bright, quick and funny, very professional;she shoots and asks good questions for an hour and a half, we invite her to the opening. Shoots a lot of close-ups, grain patterns in blasted wood, my horrid hands (workman hands, bad nails) cradling the Bird On A Bolt. She got it, which was important, because it was a kind of validation of the idea, for an audience of one, admittedly, but the first other, outside, person to see what it was we thought we were doing. It looks great. Even before Kate got there, D had shot it, plugged it in to his computer, sent Glenn images, and Glenn had responded, said it looked like artifacts, and I think Grave Goods in a cave, right. It's neolithic, this is the stuff that isn't preserved because it's organic and turns to dust. Those dudes in the caves, they needed places to hang things, they had things, so they found a tree with a branch and wedged it into a corner. Then they started thinking about attachment. You knew this was coming, I telegraph myself, my every gesture is a tell: first thing you know we have tapcons, which in my universe, along with really good glues, tyvec, and performance enhancing drugs, wait, metal roofs, battery drills, fiber fucking optics, have expanded what we can do, allow us to do things we hadn't previously considered. I don't even want to smell political but I washed my Obama tee shirt, and I'm going to wear it straight through the election. Probably smell pretty bad, but I've been reading about these baseball players, they're crazy, who won't change their socks after they've gotten a hit, keep the streak going. I'm going to do my bit, smell bad for the cause. Consider your water use, consider mine. I could stand up anywhere and be better than anyone's "concerned assessment", shamelessly, you present, rearward. I really have considered some of these things, that nothing would be there, that everything would be, some combination. In the moment, this is becoming overwhelming, what we talk about becomes real. You and me, babe, you and me. Late breaking news about a squirrel, word is he went into a bar, met a parrot, they talked, the crow said nothing happened. Believe what you will.

Tom

This is fairly fluid for me, one thing
becoming another, what I think
you are, I know you're out there,
I sense you, I know you exist.
Something other than me.
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Being Honest

What I really think, if I was being objective, if I reported what I saw, looking at every nuance, might be different from what I say. Can of worms. What I think I'm saying in what I say, the gist, is a small part. So many parts per million, really small, less than what would kill you. What story is being told. I think it all comes down to story, what I say to you, which is why YOU are so important. Getting a start on tomorrow. I like that I'm ahead. I need a serious Sunday to get ready for a busy Monday and decide that I'll only read when I'm eating. Becomes difficult, because I took Procopius out of the bookcase, intending to just read some marked passages, but it's ("The Secret History") so angry and caustic it makes me want to read some Dahlberg. I don't. I clean the stovepipe, a messy job, then outside to pick the sticks for the mock wall. Justin, Justinian, and Theodora, first half of the sixth century, modern era, Fucking idiots. Justin was illiterate, they made a stencil, LEGI (meaning 'I have read') and his sign, so he could just rub ink across. Found an interesting piece in the wrack pile, that I remembered collecting, a small thing, 18 inches long and 3 wide, tapering at both ends (but differently tapering): if you turn it one way it's a dagger sticking down, if you turn it the other it's a feather pointing up. I brush it clean. A pocked surface, like hard sandblasting, very nice. The texture is everything sometimes. The Wrack Show is about form. The viewer has to extrapolate meaning from form. You, all over again. B, I think is correct, when he said I write these things into reality. Like it wasn't real before I got a hold of it, but after I had worried it almost to death, it became (would become) something tangible, in self-defense, if for no other reason. And, frankly, it gives me something to do. Consider my life. There is a way in which I only do things to have something to write about. I would only do another play, have to be a Pinter, because I wanted to reflect on dark, familial things; only do another installation if it promised access to some forbidden place. My younger daughter is uncomfortable right now and I wonder if I should ask her to come and live with me. We'd make a great pair: weird father and weird daughter appearing normal. I'd certainly not want to be any kind of role-model, living as I do, but Rhea is one of the few people I know who could actually do it, live the way I do, and suggest improvements. Suggest improvements that I would listen to. Because I'm alone I probably think too much, but I got up to get another drink, and there the pieces were, took my breath away, anything we do will be fine.
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Logistics

Life tends toward complexity. Call from my girls and they want to visit over xmas, and they want to see my folks, Jacksonville, Florida, for what will probably be the last time. I can't turn this down, though the expense and difficulty will both be extreme. Have to get some work done on the truck, two hard days driving, airplane tickets, a couple of motel rooms. Gads. Talk about it Sunday. Tomorrow I'm going to semi-gloss polyurethane two of the sculptural pieces, and if it's not raining too hard, pick some sticks for the mock assembly. Life as theater. Need to drill some holes in two posts, so I can drive a peg, to hold the rails while lashing. Grammar is the track, syntax is the train, I remember B telling me that, years ago, I think of it often, when writing you. Language as vehicle. Boshed criticism with Glenn, but I do find systems of criticism interesting, as thought game, to see if I can follow the argument, whether I believe it or not. Usually I believe parts of things, but don't agree with anything. Took me ten years to read Levi-Strauss and then he was posted by post, I lost interest for a while, when I took it back up post was history. Keep a boy busy. Looked at the space the mock wall will occupy, decide it needs to stand off from the wall, need an extendo device, two, actually, then we could put something behind the wall, maybe the Bird On A Bolt. Thinking about attachment, the installation requires attachment to the walls of the room, all shows require installation, we use hardware, mollys, cable, whatever is necessary, therefore, the argument is, that we can use not river hardware where the wrack hits the wall. A museum wall, you know what I mean. Glenn asked about the YOU and we talked about it at some length. What I meant by it, who I thought you were, how he, as part of the YOU, felt about being included. I go fuzzy here, because I never have any idea that I'm going to address you when I do. What happens, is that I'm writing along, and I'll mention something with a particular person in mind: a mold I might think of Stephanie, a Shakespeare quote would be Mac. And I always smile and address you directly. Back to attachment, no small issue, can we use glue? Did anyone ever not cheat? Thought about the lighting today, the shadows. If we use the fire hose as a woven roof on the porch, we could spell out a word in shadow, because the lights are above. A word spelled in shadow on the floor, think about it. It would have to be a short word, 3 or 4 letters. We could spell WALL, easy forms, no curves, with just one cut piece, or ALL; I wonder if there's a job in casting shadows. On the floor, where you can hardly read them. But even with pixelated edges it's Representational and not Abstract. Where, exactly, is the point at which they diverge? I love abstract art, I never want anyone telling me what I think I see, fuck them and their preconceptions, I have a mind and I can use it, I'll decide what I see, thank you very much. I look forward to tomorrow. We're on the brink here, something is happening. Power out so I saved but didn't send. Tomorrow now. Spend most of the day applying polyurethane to The Calder and the Bull Head, then switch to oil for the abstract stump. Takes hours to apply oil to the large stump, hundreds of crevices, raised, sandblasted grain. I think it needs another coat but I'm fumigated. Before a walk I put the two smaller pieces on the table and when I get back they look lovely. We've a bunch of two-foot stumps but they need to be higher, need to cut some slightly smaller one-foot sections to go on top of them, a stepped reveal. A stepped pedestal. I always placed my muse on one, the easier to climb, but when I got to the top she was always gone, slipped out the back while I was looking down. Fear of heights. The reason I'm cold right now, I can no longer climb on my own damned roof, too many falls. Gun shy. You get thrown enough times, you finally stop riding horses. If you're a cowboy, you become a sheep-herder. If you're a roofer, you're probably dead. In a reverie, drifting through the installed Wrack Show, I think I could have chosen an easier path, but it probably wouldn't have gotten me to where I am, paths are like that, they lead somewhere. By simply cutting through the underbrush you get to a different place. Must warn you though, that a lacerated retina is my most common injury, from snapping branches, but it's an acute event, the retina heals quickly; and though the pain is intense and you can't read, it only lasts a day or two. Interesting line of thought, ongoing today, putting a finish on some pieces and wanting other elements to be quite rough, the interplay of the two. Can't decide about the Goat Head, afraid it might disappear if I do anything to it. The Gar Head is strange, so small and delicate, but so vicious looking, I don't know what to do with it. I could place it on a low pedestal with a kneeling mat and a magnifying glass, or just float it with monofilament in a section of wall, down low, where it would scare the kids. I think the Primary Stick needs to be in the pergola, with the balls flowing around, maybe we could burn just the one face of Jesus at the top of the stick, claim it was lightning, charge admission. It certainly changed my life when I saw the face of Jesus on a tortilla, you know, that I could know what he looked like. Black velvet is good that way, as a background. The last ten minutes at the museum, when things are cool, is a blast, energetic conversation. Something to think about. What and why. I know some things, I've thought about this. You have too. I only appeal to like-minded readers, You again. There seems to be a connection. This show does its own merry dance. I need to get some sleep.
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Lunch Fragments

I have placed my life on hold, actually did a couple of months ago. This Show is all consuming. Art Talk about the "Distilled" show, many people, great speakers (Nick and Lane), a genuine buzz. People can call ahead and book a boxed lunch, so after the event I went through all the boxes, to collect duck and goose food, stopped at B's briefly, to tell him I had some boiled linseed oil (for the Praxiteles) then stopped at the lake to feed birds. I'm very popular with the birds. Way to work this morning, an interesting phenomenon, at the confluence of the Scioto and the Ohio, the entry-flow (probably a word for this) from the Scioto was absolutely visible, as a line, talk about defining something, because the colder water of the Scioto was not steaming (releasing heat, whatever the word) and the Ohio was. Nearly caused a wreck on the Second Street Bridge because I had to stop; drove down below the floodwall and got closer. It was a very sharp line for over a hundred yards, then merged into nothingness. D was talking about something and I realized what he was describing was what I refer to, in my thinking, as Pattern Recognition: see the pampas grass dipping, know it's the birds, see the birds. The thought process itself is suspect. What I meant to tell you, was that I pulled enough ham and cheese from the garbage to make a great omelet. Just a point of fact, not a point, I wasn't making one, I just saw this omelet, in my mind, and there was this ham and cheese, and I was feeding it to ducks, and I thought, fuck, I have to eat too. I'm not making a point here about eating garbage, I don't think we should, I'm just saying I did. I have to be honest, that's the rule. The last 15 minutes at the museum today was important, we laughed and spoke freely, you know what I mean, the four of us plotting the future, I see this as clear as day, what's happening: these shows, "Distilled" and "Wrack" move the line, redefine space, what we can do, what is done, a challenge I embrace. Lane used the magic words today, being engaged. Yes. Whatever we can do. I want all of Nick's painting to sell, for him to realize how good he is. We all need feed-back, believe me, none of us do something for nothing, there's always a pay-back somewhere, a certain reciprocity.You and me, babe. I trust a very small group of readers, you are it, for better or worse, I trust your opinion. There were three crows dining on a road-kill squirrel, should I make anything of that? you're call, I don't trust myself. The third crow just hopped away, never flew, did that mean something?

Tom

Could you avoid me so easily. I think not, I'm on top of this. I move many moves ahead, I've been there, done that, played chess with masters and the result is always close: you beat me because I'm impetuous. I love where we haven't gone. The mire, the mix, whatever you call it. Been there, done that. Right. You and me, we see this the same, something unfurling, whatever it is.
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My Menagerie

Nice to get home to my little group of stump animals, they're so undemanding. Installation turning into a zoo. Gar head stinks, back to the bleach. Occupational hazards. Every group that comes in, to look at the Abstract Show, at least one person says, about the Red Color-field, that they could paint that with a roller in ten minutes. Painting probably took weeks or even months to do, must be forty layers. People don't look close enough nor long enough. A publicity photo shoot for the Wrack Show, a magazine article (OHIO, mag) but set for Monday next which means D and I work another extra day, on top of the extra days, AND we can't actually set up anything because The Turning Show is still installed. Sara finds a solution, move some things around, free up a wall section; D and I realize we can build a small wall section that can be used in the Show, hang something in the window, bring in two of my pets (the Calder and the Bull, I think), and compose a shot, a sort of miniature preview, call it good. I've started using the big office calendar at a note pad, a list divided into days. Need to ramp it up but ramp is at maximum rise already. Too soon, take care not to peak too soon. Theater mode. Kim mentioned doing Summer Stock, and I think about how those weeks progressed, peaking between late Saturday night and late Monday night, strike the previous show, set up the new show, tech the new show, dress the new show, and open the new show, get through the first show, getting all the cues correct and on time, go drink, smoke dope, and party. Tuesday off until evening performance. Wednesday, start building the next set, matinee performance, more building; Thursday the same. Friday, build all day, performance, Saturday the same and strike after, starting the cycle again. 10 weeks. Reading myself, the last couple of days, since Glenn left, it's like either facets or fragmenting, but what it reflects (I think) really is the way things, tasks, become discreet as they are identified. Becomes serious business when the installation is large. Occurs to me that I'm not so much the director of this installation as I am the stage manager. Old habits. I've never understood my abilities to do this, assemble a crew and accomplish a thing, whatever it was needed doing. I seem to get intensely interested in something and that, in and of itself, that I get intensely interested in something, seems to become magnetic: Kim, again, three crows in a line. We don't know what happens when the magnetic poles reverse, we weren't around the last time, but we know it happens. How does that make you feel? I'm interested but not scared, would like, at that moment, to be living on the equator, could go either way. When I go to get a drink I stop and look at the stumps, think about all the steps between finding something and presenting something. It's a kind of magic even though I don't believe in that shit, I'm a fucking empirisist, I want the sticks in front of me. Making sense of sticks, a runic thing, I occasionally throw the chicken bones, to see what comes next. The conversation must be about meaning, there is no other thing we could talk about, why else would you do this, fuck me, sorry to involve you, but could you go my bail?
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Debrisana

The free-form winged piece is like a Calder Stabile, finally came to me. Bleaching a gar skull Glenn found, a vicious looking thing with many teeth. Smelly. D led The Dance Of The Docents today, explaining the abstract show. I walked with him through the show, before his presentation, reminding him of things he had said about the work. We call this The Calming Influence Of The Janitor. The other Art Professor we wanted involved, Lane, came to the museum, to see the abstract show, and to talk about the installation, he is engaged, wants to be involved, had some thoughtful insights, and we were on the same page, about what the Wrack Show could be. 100 second-graders screaming through, going to a free concert in the theater; a zoo, I feared for the building. It was like wading through a school of minnows. Swirling masses of them. Finally addressed the floor situation, I've let it go so long, attempted redress with my mop. D was turning into a man pretty good with a mop, before his rise in the ranks, never quite zen but certainly not a slouch; alas, will probably never mop again. I had a nice moment with the mop today: mopping the front entry and an attractive youngish couple came in, the large (6 foot by 6foot) red color-field painting is hanging there, and it really is just mostly red ( a way-subtle luminous thing happens when you look at it with patience), and the guy, in a nice way, says, -what the fuck is that?- and I explain color-field and show him the edge of the canvas, go get my flashlight and magnifying glass. I carry the magnifying glass, which is actually for my OED, in an Earth Shoe bag; when you buy Earth Shoes, inside the box, in two separate cloth bags, are the shoes, sort of like Crown Royal bags, they are always saved. There's a thesis here, "Things Saved In Cloth Bags", I leave it to someone else. I want another, better, magnifying glass for outdoors, and intend to treat myself soon, as an early xmas present, with one of those glasses with the extra bulge for additional magnification. There are times I look closely. There's an old microscope in the basement, case and all, and I think I'll take it home and clean it up, get some slides, look at small things for a while. This whole macroscopic world wears on you, maybe if I just sat and looked through a microscope I could gain a few pounds. Thinking about installing the show, marveling that we've assembled such a crew, that Kim will be here for a week, the ultimate problem solver, that Lane and Nick are on board, that B has cleared the decks, and D and I are good to go. This promises to be exciting. Lane was talking today, about going in with no preconceptions, and I knew exactly what he meant, and he knew I knew. Like that. D and I have a private language about the show. References. He came out while I was talking with Lane, talking about how whatever went in the pergola, it became a kind of shrine, where we had joked we should have the face of Jesus on a piece of wrack, or on many pieces of wrack, a holy place, and I said to D -the primary stick- and he knew what I meant. The base of the first stick we ever retrieved from the flood-plain, a monster weird thing, the primary stick. It could go there and the balls could flow around it. It will go somewhere, as will the balls, everything has a place. Let's not preconceive. You know me better than that. My book here is purely on the materials, not a thought toward theory, I rest my case on merely interesting. The Donut Defense, whatever you call it, "not of sound mind", too much sugar, the very idea that you could make a meal on pistachios, too many double-cheeseburgers. I will defend the footer, sauce, mustard and cheese, unto my deathbed, there are some things beyond doubt, perfect, in-and-of-themselves, that become iconic. Beware the posters, they usually lie, I'm more comfortable with simply heating water, I can tell what's what. Boiling at a given elevation.
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Sandblasting

Feel like I've been to the beach. I'm back home from a day at D's, working the wrack. Brought pieces back with me, to apply, maybe, some finish, and in the middle of my house are four major and one minor sculptural monads. Three of the major and the minor are done. An impressive grouping: a Goat Head, a Bull Head, a Sweeper, and a totally abstract thing; the minor piece is a small burned oval that looks like an African Head. D working on the bed, then at the end of the day we put together the massive chair, a piece that manages to be both funny and functional, needs sandblasting and polyurethane. Stopped at B's and the torso is beautiful. In the parlance of preparators, we have a show. And I have sand everywhere. With Kim here for the first week of installation, to help set the walls, I'm more than confidant we'll bring this project through to MORE THAN the original idea, whether or not it would take the interest of anyone else. I can't answer that. Our job ends with conceptually filling a space. Many times last week, I was asked, one way or another, what did I think people would think, and I don't know, hadn't really considered the question, I think I had the thought that if we did this with interesting sticks, attached in interesting ways, that funneled you through openings to look at interesting things, that it would be interesting. Something like that. Fell victim to my own folly, there was a rotten heart in the top of the abstract stump and I just blew it away, and there was a bowled depression; I remembered a small plastic bowling ball and it fit perfectly. If you turn the three holes correctly, it looks like a surprised face, a mouth and two eyes. Bowling balls are funny, circular artifacts with three cylindrical holes, what do you make of that? We assume it was a weapon but it might have been a game. If you have any bridge-work, and want to do some sandblasting, get a very good hood, tape every opening, sand is insidious, not without a conscious thought, invidious; first thing, I get a Q-tip and clean my ears, finger the corners of my eyes, spit, get rid of extra shit, look carefully at what I see. Still holds up if we break it down, something, though not what we expected. Hey, listen, I'm the janitor, my goal is to paint the walls and mop the floors, I have no expectations.
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Cleaning Wrack

Cold house and the stove-pipe not cleaned, so I add a layer and go out to clean wrack. An old bath towel is ideal for this, but it's a dusty job. Handling the pieces, I start to see them assembled. The Bull's Head stump is perfect, untouched, needs just mounting, with rebar, to a pedestal. Another, smaller stump, needs some sanding, perhaps trim the base a bit. Several delicate twisted and ingrown things will work wonderfully, hanging from the skeletal walls. Sandblasting again tomorrow, working on my largish walnut stump, just enough to clean it and expose some of the grain. Root systems are so complex. Working with the wrack, a kind of time compression thing happens, suddenly the day is nearly over and I'm filthy. The annual Fall Color Motorcycle Tour goes through the State Forest and they broke the spell for me, traveling down below on Upper Twin Creek Road, like an angry swarm of giant bugs. A bunch of bass cicadas with six-foot wingspan, growling and farting. They drive me to an early drink, just after five, a single malt Glenn left, while water heats for a bath. Read part of the latest Ian Rankin, then bathe, wash hair, and shave, like I'm going on a date with you, because all I have left to do today is write. Don't read too much into that though, because I was really dirty, couldn't live with myself. Odd, that if I'm dirty or need to shave, I really must do it before I write. Cooler weather has cured the foot rash, essentially a sweat and scratch problem (once the sequence was triggered by stupidity) and maybe I learned a lesson. Not able to get Glenn with Barnhart and wonder about music for the show and the movie; be nice to get a loop of the waves, when a string of barges go by, lapping against the shore. Now that several people are pulling the Wrack Pages from my writing, the past year, it begins to look like a book, "The Wrack Show", which I think about, while I'm soaking in the sheep-watering trough. Loved the conversation with Glenn, we go back a long way and share interests, AND he has a great memory, remembering when and who, so, together, we tell a grand story. I'm a good narrator but I don't remember the facts. Probably, D and Sara thought I was making a lot of this stuff up, my life history, but Glenn would remember not only the play, but the actors too, and we were all forced to reconsider. "To recall is not the same as to call." G. Spenser Brown. This may be the first visit ever with Glenn that we don't discus G. Spenser Brown, speaks to the level of engagement, so much going on. The Combined Arts are difficult, I prefer working alone, but this project is cool, "The River Sticks", because it fully engages me, I love all the people involved, I like making something out of nothing. We might talk about expectations or we might ignore the subject completely. It's a loose framework, plowing new ground, where do you want to go? For myself? Merely something interesting.

Tom

I didn't leave the house
but there was a spider
that wove a web over the door.
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Deputy's Scones

So, the Deputy had phoned in that she was sick and probably wouldn't be in today. Not only had I bought her a scone, but they were hot from the oven. Pegi had a shit-eating grin on her face, hadn't had breakfast, bought the scone from me for a dollar. I don't usually deal scones. Several things: Level Of Trust (we've talked about many times this week), Boorstin Codification, how we become aware of some things we believe. What I mean, you know me, I float from position to position, I have a list, I try to cross things off. I do this, often, with one finger, an exercise. The Deputy finally went home mid-afternoon, we were driving her away, she was diseased and we were well, the sick should never be with the well. Glenn followed me in, we left an hour early, with blessings, stopped at B's to see the revealed crotch, and it's very good, a student of Praxiteles. Theories Of Attachment, the way things are joined. We're thinking now a bottom rail with a double stack of pavers. Something to hold things in place, some weight. These paintings, I used my influence as janitor to bring things to a head, wanted to see light on those canvases, what they could do, Sara and D could do this in there sleep, usually, but these paintings are difficult to light, because they pick up anything. The red Color-Field painting at the entry picks up a halo and we can't figure out where the fuck it's coming from, it's a reflection from an Exit Sign, we must fabricate a light deflector. I won't send this tonight, I have other fish to fry, you know what I mean, because we're addressing things differently, we're installing things locally. Remarkably Out Of Time, the third category; could be construed as simply too busy, what happens when you make things up as you go along. A kind of bath-tub ring, a level of sophistication, that place where words flowed as a matter of course. At first I had no idea what you were talking about, a real thing, something in the natural world, a bird or maybe a snail; something real in the natural world, a burl or a stump or even just a stick, a spider mired in a web, something. But what I had was office workers battling for a scone, cool in an almost sick way, D regretting he hadn't had his malaria shots, plagued by mosquitos, below the floodwall. Bugs don't bother me, I flick them off, I think it's merely a matter of my smell. Something simple. I smell like that. They're confused. Maybe I shouldn't. But of course I do, because I can't not. The Abstract Show is well hung, looks great, but our show is next, what we choose to expose. There's a difference. What's on the line. Consider the Phlox that would have been blooming. The wild mustard. Yellow and blue in a field of dying green. They cut everything. A slaughter. Busy week. McCord and son show up with beer and wine and a wild boar ham, then Glenn in to shoot more of the Wrack Show documentary, early evening, this would be last Saturday. So I made a big shrimp fried rice and we drank too much, fed everyone breakfast, McCord and son off for Columbus. Glenn starts filming, trip out to D's shop and we finally do some sandblasting. Have to install D's Abstract Show, "Distilled" at the museum but D has to get the calendar shipped out, electronically, and it's a huge file, so mostly I install the show, after all day Tuesday shifting every painting at least five times. 49 pieces. Must have walked 20 miles. Glenn filming at the museum and then, when we get home, he sets up equipage and I talk and cook, he asks questions, I answer. The Janitor At Home. Talk about the Wrack Show endlessly. Making people forget they're on camera is a trick. All week I'm just a step ahead, which is off-beat, trying to manage things. Once a Stage Manager. Glenn films B working on the Praxiteles torso, it's a sexy piece and I think Glenn caught me fondling it. The Naughty Nook, as we now think of one of the corners, either northeast or southeast, is looking better in my mind. A great session one evening, talking Theories Of Attachment. A note ( I took a few, but mostly too busy) that was something overheard, an email that said -this message has no content- and I considered that for a while. The Wrack Show carries no meaning, but then it does. No Left Turn Unstoned. Talking about the sign show with Glenn, another show I'd like to do, and he remembered that sign, from Ken Kesey's place, talking sign. I have a note that says -a second atom- and I have no idea what it means. There are several notes that can't be read. Wednesday afternoon, the color-field paintings were hung, and I was dying to see them lit, knew they were going to be a challenge. Pegi almost mugged me, for the second scone, The Deputy's Scone, I need to remember to hold a grudge and say something sarcastic to her, something not too offensive. Egos are delicate things. Eggs. Also, anticipation. Through all the pends and wynds, the way we carry ourselves reveals who we are. Thinking about that, the way we appear to others, realized my life was primitive, that I had reverted to an earlier lifestyle, no running water and an outhouse. You can fault yourself forever, but you are what you are. Not to draw too fine a point. I use a hard lead, and a gum eraser, change my mind often, it works for me. You have to find your way. As cold as that, otherwise nothing means anything, and I can't accept that. There are specific times and places where something made sense, give me a moment, I'll remember one.

Tom

I need to be doing
more than I'm doing
but I can't, I'm doing
all I can.
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Abstract Show

Unveiling. Always exciting, seeing new work. Four large color-field paintings are stunning. Look at them for a while and shapes start emerging. A series of paintings with strange twisting ribbons, and horn-like funnels pouring balls. 18 small works on paper, uniformly framed, usually hung in a tight grid pattern. Some very abstract photographs, other-worldly. Still missing 10 paintings by Nick Gampp, one of which belongs to me, I'm trading him a sand-blasted stump. Step one, after unpacking, is to spread everything out around the walls. Sara, D and I all agree we've got a hell of a show. D's first major show as Curator, main gallery show. He's done some fine work in the upstairs gallery, where the Wrack Show will live. First major Abstract Show at the museum. Writing will be spotty until the middle of November, filming starting tomorrow, Monday the last major collection day, I have a list of pieces we need. Install the Abstract Show next week, then two weeks of prep work, then two weeks to install the Wrack Show. Monday will be three trucks and a chainsaw, new hunting grounds, further east, other side of the new bridge. Found the missing rope and dragged it to safety, need to hang it under the shed so it can dry, it unbraids splendidly, probably have enough. I hadn't reread what I wrote last night (I sometimes do), especially the second posting, the first posting, usually I read through many times, while I'm writing it, the second, I rarely look back, of course, if there is a second one I'm usually drunk and don't often send them. More balls, a few, I forgot to mention, D found an excellent small plastic bowling ball, halfway in size between a softball and a volley ball. I'm liking the balls in the pergola, but they'd be fine coming out of any corner, it's the splitting of the flood of balls, as they decrease in size, with the real bowling ball, that is a kind of statement. I don't know what the statement is, but it's right there, will be. It doesn't mean anything, it's just a way of tying up sticks. Just remembered something I hadn't thought about for decades. Early years of the press, Ted and I took a lot of hallucinogenic drugs, and we'd ingested some toasted morning glory seeds ( a spray of oil, some salt and garlic powder) and we were on another planet. Printing a McCord book, "The Arcs Of Lowitz", a lovely thing, when Ted took a ball of white butcher's twine outside and stretched it between trees. He said something about defining space, proceeded to divide the yard into quadrants, with a single piece of string. I had a quart of Ballantine Ale, I remember this so clearly, three pours in my beer glass, with a nice head, watching him string the yard. A string was all that was necessary to define a given space. File that away. Years later, you remember something, defining space, a yard-stick you used, a pocket knife I used once. I never save anything, and don't collect tokens. Better to not depend on the stupidity of others, I'm hanging right on the narrative fringe. I thought I was saying something. Comes back to bite you on the ass.

Tom

What we have are some walls, and a show to install,
a positive thing, not a single weeping crow:
what is required, is that you knuckle down.
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Another Thing

Got up to pee, middle of the night, even the bugs had gone to bed. I'm outside, it's really dark, cool, slightly damp, the brittle leaves are rattling. I'm almost drunk, swaying, wondering why I'm here, alone. Instead of going back to bed, which would be the sensible solution, I log on and choose to write you. I'm resistant because I know I'm beyond writing but I want to try. To be honest with you. Several things bother me and I haven't mentioned them. I'm not clinically depressed, but I have feelings, sometimes I hear voices, but I can explain them as aspects of wind. All sounds are possible, if you listen. And as a codicil, all things are visible. I see things. Can't help it. I'll be doing something mundane, mopping the floor or sweeping dust-bunnies out of the corner, and I'll see Emily D out of the corner of my eye, or Proust rounding the corner. I can't help it. You live alone, you make things up. What we strive toward, is making sense. You take all this varied imput and you pat it into shape, build a model, smooth all the rough surfaces, call it reality. It looks good. Thinking about Kim, making molds for his pours, there is something about cast iron that is almost permanent. I imagined a single crow, lost, trying to find his clan. He weeped in the night. I hear him, a plantive cry, a solitary scream, I am him, I know that sound. I don't care shit about what I might have been, I only want to be in the moment. It's hard to face reality. However you face the world, there are facets, the plastic diamond I found today, glinting in afternoon light, is almost precious, means more to me than a diamond. Why is that important? Why do things carry meaning? When B and I were talking I noticed I looked directly into his eyes. Does that mean something? Also the smell, must talk with the Deputy about French Whore House perfumes, what we must not wear. There are limits. I dress plainly and smell earthy for a reason. I thought that was clear.

Tom

I can't let go, I have this idea of you, in my mind, and it wouldn't; I don't make this shit up, let me sleep. What it is, is that I can say anything to you and you would understand, I don't have to explain myself, but, yet, that is all I do. Explain. The stick is merely a stick, I might sand the edges, grind down to the heart, mere embellishment. Anything I refer to is pre-existent, in the nature of the thing itself, I don't make this shit up. Life. The universe. It happens. I was below the floodwall, today, yesterday, it bothers me I can't remember which. Who are you, exactly?
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Barrow Ditch

Borrow pit, borrow pond, barrow ditch, burrow mound. Den, warren, bedding spot. Warm up exercises. Remarkably out of tune. Deputy out with a headache, D picking up abstract paintings in Columbus, most of today spent getting ready for tomorrow. End of the day I set up a table with a blanket on top, get out the job-box, the shipping boxes and 57 bundles of labeled bubble-wrap for the photographs. Two big rolls of clear packing tape, dispenser. Check. Basement is a shambles, as always when we switch over shows, because inevitably the packing and shipping crates you need are behind the packing and shipping crates from another show. Try to remember unpacking the show, so I'll know how to pack it. Need to get D to rip some 3/4 plywood gusset strips, two feet long, for the improvised ramp we'll need to get Wrack Material up over the balcony rail. Just thought of another attachment. We find a great many small boards, some quite cute, in a small board way, rounded ends, soft wood etched smoothly away, but we don't collect many of them, but we have an interesting few. One could be screwed onto the backside of a post and the post could be mollied to the wall through the board, very strong joint, I like strong joints. Distractions, don't get me started. There's a small sassafras diagonally out one of the two windows in the wall where I write (I always used to write without any windows, inside walls, or whatever cave I could arrange) and the leaves are all different colors, yellow, red, orange, in failing light the damned thing looks exactly like a water buffalo out the corner of my eye. If that don't get your attention, I mean, really, it's almost as good as the pink elephant in your living room. Just enough wind to flutter his ears, like he's swatting at flies. Asked again, this time by the Visiting Artist in the Schools, Hal, a sweet, nice person, what was the theory? I said there wasn't one, the Wrack Show is all about the materials. We just collect them, we collect interesting pieces, using a criteria we don't understand, a kind of cave-man duh-and-point, and oddly, there is generally agreement that whatever it is, it is interesting. Case in point, the piece we call Bird On A Bolt, everyone, so far, 8 out of 8, sees the damned thing as a bird on a bolt. Is that strange? I don't know. Bisecting space, drawing a line between two points, building walls, even if just a skeleton of a wall, thinking about that, walking in the gallery, realized I didn't want to pay any attention to the plane of the walls of the space, ignore them completely, our walls are the important walls, I aim to make the others disappear. Even a string, stretched from one tree to another, cleaves space. Walking a bull-dog, this old lady says, -you the guys building the house at the museum?- Yup. Power out last night so I couldn't Send but I saved. which is almost as good. So beautiful today, that fall light, and the recent rains give color for the second half of leaf-fall. Mackletree is lovely except that the goddamn mowing crew cut all the roadside wild-flowers. Hit the ground running at the museum, packed the entire photography show, 57 pieces, and got them all boxed. D finished the calendar, a 75 gig pdf file (large, if I understand correctly). Tomorrow I need to remove hanging hardware, patch and sand, then unpack the Abstract Show. Glenn arrives late Saturday to film some more, the Wrack Show grows, and time compresses. The level of interest is interesting. Stopped by B's on the way home, to find the rope we had stashed in his creek, he had figured out where we had put it, but Turkey Creek was considerably higher and it was not easy to find; he wondered why we hadn't put it where he would have. I had no answer for that. We had good conversation about the Show, he is adamant that the only signage needs to be my writing about it, the way the show achieves a tangibility through what I say about it, how it is created by the things we find. I agree. Any statement I have to make is embedded in my postings. Last week, for instance, I thought I was fairly clear, "Whatever Floats" is pretty much what I think. Maybe Sara or B could edit me, and that would be the signage, I don't have time, I have sticks to clean and attachments to consider. The stump peds need work and the lashing material is sopping wet. I've reduced my own expectations to a single stump I want to sand-blast, a walnut beauty. Picture if you can, two old guys dragging a piece of hawser through the grass, both of them excited by the possibilities; wow, man, cool rope, lashing looking good. They drag it where it will catch maximum sun, leave it to dry, retreat to the stairs for a beer; talk about their friend, Steven Ellis, the best poet in the language, as a matter of course, that Darrow Bitch is a friend of mine, I've seen him lord it over the best minds of my generation. I'm nothing if not flammable, disappearing in the wind. Parts per million, run the equations.

Tom

Three crows, and they didn't want to fly, they
hopped off to the roadside, in that awkward
way they have; I rolled down the window
and yelled at them -survival skills, motherfuckers,
get with the program- and they ignored me completely.
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Washing Rope

Found two more hanks of hawser yesterday, filthy, embedded in river mud. Stopped at B and Sarah's place to rinse them in Turkey Creek. Decide they need to soak, so leave them weighted down with rocks. No one is there, so this morning stop by the college to tell them that there are important ropes in the creek behind their house. Two inch braided nylon, mostly blue. Forty feet of fire hose. I finally do an actual sketch with measurements, mostly to count posts and rails, need more of both, back to the debris field next Monday. There's another area, further east, that I need to scout. Spent time in the gallery today, visualizing. B stopped by the museum, visiting the Deputy, and we chatted. He has a sculptural piece for the Sex Toy room. I call it that, no one will know, a slightly suggestive piece of wood, a boat bumper, a strange bag-tube device, need a couple more things. There's another small stump that sort of looks like a lady bending over. Must sandblast the walnut stump. Found a piece of dock with a piece of rebar sticking through it, figure to use the rebar as mounting posts for the sculptural pieces on their peds. Wish I had a lot more balls, I'd fill the pergola, like those fence cylinders they use to contain beach balls at The Store. I still think the pergola is good for the balls, just wish I had more. The balls I didn't collect. I need a better retrieval devise. Maybe a small bow and some of those suction-tipped arrows. A net with a really long handle, aluminum, extendable, like a bull-float handle (what concrete guys use to smooth the surface of a pour before they can walk on it). A parachuting net that I can wad-up and shoot with a slingshot. A very well trained blue-heeler hound. A wet-suit. More balls. Maybe a boat. Maybe a fleet of boats manned by Ball Volunteers, we could scour the river from Cincy to Portsmouth, a little over a hundred miles, then put all the balls on display in a huge wire cylinder in the middle of a football field somewhere. But then what do you do with the balls? I was thinking that I could fence part of my land turn it into a Ball Corral, a ball graveyard, and they could just rot or melt or whatever. Eventually there'd be just a slick spot where nothing grew, a kind of latex carpet. A weird installation, because it wouldn't do its thing until long after I'm dead. A Post-Mortem Installation, like a trust fund. Main gallery show comes down day after tomorrow and I need to wrap it alone as D needs to sit on his ass and design graphics, to clear his time later, when we install the Wrack Show. No problem on wrapping the show alone, it's an easy show in that regard, but I will miss the banter; I knew it would come back to bite us on the ass, D and I have way too much fun working together. I've been lectured on this, I know I'm good to work with, funny, smart, always one step ahead. Janitors are students of human nature. They see it all. From Puny Falafulus, Keeper of the library at Alexandria, to Punky Dorff, Head Janitor at Sing Sing, these guys have seen it all. There was a course, at Janitor College, on plungers, the history of, a very good course, I can't remember the profs name, Hardy, Hardaway, Hanson, he smoked a pipe and wore Channel # 5. It was a good course, where you saw clearly that there needed to be a plunger, and the development therefrom. Plungers have gotten better, so has glue, maybe there's hope. Don't question what you think you should do, just do it. An open space, I assumed you hovered and cleared a space with your black plane, no markings of any sort, and I would go solo, admit you were never there. -I'm sorry, he was never here- what was. We need to talk, your people and my people. I'm confused, you and me, what do we have in common. What I Thought I Saw, hey, nothing is what it seems, nothing.
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Overcoming Inertia

Meet at the museum, go below the floodwall with two trucks and a chainsaw, walk the 1st terrace pretty much all the way from the marina to the mouth of the Scioto. A wonderland. The largest wrack field is probably half-an-acre, a jumble of sticks from whole large trees to twigs. We high-grade and still fill both trucks. We're over-buying here, so we can pick and choose when we do the actual installation. D insists he needs a particular stump, a complex double root-ball, a kind of siamese thing, maybe a Slippery Elm, looks like two seeds or samaras grew together and it's one piece but we can tell it wants to split, two trunks right from the root(s), one of which yields a crotched post. Heavy and awkward fucker, but we get it loaded. Three other crotched posts and we agree we need to find some more, maybe four more, because they will aid the assembly enormously. Crotched posts, I think, fill an early and important niche in building simple shelters. A spray of acorns on the shed roof (gusty wind) sounded like firecrackers. Startling. Found more parts for the bed, two very clean-edged post-modern root-balls, smallish. Four very nice stump pedestals. A great morning scrounging and we stop at the pub for a bowl of soup, Jim stands us to bottles of his best Scottish Ale, excellent, and we talk about the Beer Tasting Fund Raiser that is the opening of the Wrack Show. On the ridge, we unload at the shed, take both trucks back out to the printshop, bring all the wrack-sticks to the shed, have a beer and a smoke, then back out to the shed. Talk about the show and pry off bark with pocket knifes. At one point D looks up, we hadn't spoken for a while, both of us debarking, and he says -what the fuck are we doing?- -It doesn't mean anything- I tell him. -It merely is- Glenn was on this, when we talked the other day, about how theory is bullshit, the sticks tangibly exist. The key here, is that it needs to look interesting, be interesting, and, if I had a theory, it would be that the materials are inherently interesting. That would be my Artist Statement. I've grown more interested in natural forms. Three birds go into a bar: a crow, a parrot, and a sparrow; what I actually am is a cartoonist who can't draw, a composer who doesn't read music, and someone who can't resolve a single fucking thought. A failure by any standard except the one that counts. I can't say what that is, I'm too close to it, what I see is a step away, the product, not the process, I do because I have to. I'd rather be a surfer. Really, you know, when you consider everything. Live someplace where the surf was always good and you could live in the moment. And never read Emily or Cormac McCarthy, never dig your muscles into the world, no deadlines, no sudden last-minute changes. They'd probably have Health Care and Retirement Packages, and you might be swayed, as well you should, a guarantee that they care about the workers, but there was a thread that I was following, what was it? Something about substance. Fill in the blanks. I'd rather do this than that. I'd much rather report the ducks than make something up, but I constantly have to make things up, because reality can't keep pace. Where were you September 17th?
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Chewing Gum

And walking. I amuse myself. A wonderful day. Contact with the outside world, phone calls. Pivotal phone calls, set the record straight, serious communication. I have to get an early drink. Nothing is the same. Visit with actual humans, talk, carry on, make a call. I think about the pieces we didn't collect, because they were too large or awkward, and I wish we had collected them. I tell Glenn, that if it is a story, I could repeat it. I can tie a knot and talk at the same time, maybe even gesture appropriately, I know the "Queen's Wave", can do a simple two-step. B and Sarah had walked over, visiting his cabin, talk about the show, then call Glenn back, talk about the filming, Deputy is Saturday Staff at the museum, call her to share enthusiasm. Celebratory bottle of wine. Then today I'm Staff for a function, tomorrow, below the floodwall for crotched support posts, need some pallets from the paint store, to keep the wrack sticks off the ground in the shed, need to move some shit around, get a count on rails. The Post-Impressionists considered The Impressionists too naturalistic. Wrote some, last night, but I've learned to not SEND if I'm drunk. Good move, gibberish. I saved a few nouns and one verb. The Lesser Urban Sparrows were riding the pampas grass today, always makes me smile to see them. Something about the change of season. The young red maple I left outside my writing window, four years old, 20 feet tall, growing on old rootstock, has turned bright orange, a lovely thing. The drive in and out, where Mackletree enters the forest, canopied and dappled with slanted light, is beautiful. The season of color, broad brush strokes. Receptionist was a no-show, so I sat at the desk all afternoon, reading art history. Several interesting conversations with people who came in on "the Tour Of Lofts" or whatever the town function was called. One woman, I'm pretty sure, was flirting with me. I was merely telling her and her friend what was where, being fairly glib, because when they came in I was looking at pictures of some Balthus paintings and my mind was elsewhere, so my answers to their questions were extremely indirect, in fact, probably not answers at all but further questions. I'm not good at the desk because the Art Library, and a good one, is right there and I keep my nose buried in books. Her friend's name was Gertrude and I quoted a line from "Hamlet", she thought that was cool and quoted a line, of course, from "Romeo and Juliet", I had unknowingly violated my own First Rule: Never Reveal Yourself. Or the codicil, if I reveal myself completely, I am invisible. Strangest thing is meeting a stranger and they know more about me than I do, I play dumb, I can do this easily, 'playing dumb' is a gift I was granted when the "Mayflower" grounded ashore. There was a white whale, right, it was in the Living Room with you, correct . Did you look behind the sofa? I hate to ask dumb questions, but they are the same questions the cops will ask. Could you, did you, would you. I don't know. Once I would have known. Now I'm in the dark, at least deep shadow. I just want to install a show.
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Whatever Floats

Interesting things found at waters edge. Mostly it floats. D wanted to use a rock and I nixed the idea as unfloatable, as though that were some sort of criteria, which it might be, then remembered exceptions, to the rule. One rule being there should always be exceptions. Besides, who am I to say? The pergola should dive fairly steeply toward the back, think V, lower at the bottom, better angle for lighting, dramatic flare and flair, maybe the balls inside. The suggestion of a porch can be as few as six pieces, think minimal: 2 posts, a beam, a rafter at either end, a single purlin, elegant. Maybe a nifty crooked railing, maybe a small piece of metal on the roof, to cast a shadow. Shadows, god, I hadn't thought much about them, but there are going to be a great many shadows. Think about it. Liking the lashing attachment more and more, may need to steal some rope while there are still moored boats. Found a roll of baling wire and it certainly doesn't float, but I'm not above using it. Whatever Floats could also mean Your Boat, and that would mean whatever it would mean, whatever made the idea work. Also growing on me is the voyeuristic peep into the two adjacent houses through the back windows. Nice touch. Need a raunchy piece of wrack, just remembered a piece, not enough, but a start, a rubber thing that looks like an enema bag for a truck. The dock bumper could be a sex toy. Must remember to tell Nick about a possible display of sex toys. Cleaned the alley today and found a used condom, a doubled condom, actually, so someone is practicing safe sex. It would be nice to find a roll of butcher paper or cling-wrap. Just had a great idea but won't have time to do it: a Japanese screen made from glued bits of wrack paper in a wrack frame. Palimpsest. There's a lot of paper floating around. You could probably say whatever you wanted, find the words and make a ransom note. For instance, from a distance, this lovely screen, clean natural form, back-lit and slightly opaque, but as you get closer you can make out words, closer still, you can read the words, and it's a specific note: leave five dollars and a bottle of Ridge, '93, Lytton Springs, Zinfandel, under the north bridge abutment, or you'll never see your cat alive again. Like that. I see a series of threatening screens. I need to call Barnhart, the music guy, be nice if there was the sound of the river, on a loop, softly in the background. Be nice if at the opening there was a beautiful naked female playing the Bach Cello Suites but I doubt that. Think about it. Whatever, you know, think about it, floats your boat. I try not to judge, so deeply scared from hiding under my desk, when we did that as a matter of course, earth tremors or atomic attach, nuclear, we ducked beneath the desks, we were well trained, and that meant keeping the path clear, so we put up our toys, I remember a peg-board, with the toys outlined in magic marker. I almost remember.
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Lake Heat

The most impressive display of water losing heat I've ever seen. A kind of visible entropy. Roosevelt Lake creating its own fog bank. Had to stop and walk down to the shore. 42 degrees this morning, after a high over 80 yesterday, and the vapors were almost solid, 6 feet high, then trailing off into fingers reaching skyward. A warm vapor too, warmer, at least, than the outside air. The geese seemed perplexed but still accepted the rock-hard sour-dough bread, they bobbed at it until it was soft enough to swallow. Enormous gaggle of turkeys and I have to stop again, to count, maybe 37, not easy to count, they're working a field of fallow-land grass gone to seed, moving like a band of sheep across the hillside, flowing. Looks like three families, mothers and yearlings, no gobblers. The mothers herd them like border collies working a flock. Still early enough to town to get below the floodwall. No fog, no vapor on the river, because it's moving? because it comes from further north and was cooler? No clue. What I don't know greatly exceeds what I know, I like "What I Don't Know" as a title, implies writing about what you don't know, which implies you know what it is. Is denatured alcohol the same as rubbing alcohol? pretty sure there is only methyl and ethyl, and you only drink ethyl (a little mantra), but I don't know for sure. Maybe the title should be "What I Don't Know For Sure", though it's more awkward, it's probably closer to the truth. Interesting tension at the museum, getting ready for the next change-over of shows, the scheduling, the e-mails, the calls; in many ways the most difficult aspect, the arrangements. And these installations are special, because D is curating the major Abstract Show (Distilled (no methyl or ethyl intended)) in the main gallery and then we install the Wrack Show upstairs. Fortunately that damned Brit shows up and we all drop what we're doing to gather around and laugh at his dry sick humor. The man is funny, his foul mouth and dead-on mimics have us sputtering. He corroborates, for me, what I'd been thinking: if you don't enjoy doing it, don't bother. D and I had gone to the pub for afternoon coffee to go, the Brit was there, reading the paper, checking the value of the pound in this time of crisis, having a pint, the place was almost deserted, so we were loud and offensive, he shot back with equal invective, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the experienced bar-maid counsel the new bar-maid that we were full of shit but amusing. We are that. We'd both rolled smokes while he paid his tab, so we could walk over to the museum together, stop on the sidewalk to finish smoking, and he was loud, a crazy man on the streets, a kind of formal cursing, a litany of wrongs, all the things you had done incorrectly, and he was correct, we had done those things badly. "You have a republic, if you can keep it..." Ben Franklin's words keep coming back at me, how clearly did he see the future? It's a crisis of the imagination. Imagine what might happen. How are you with that? I have to go listen, I'm interested, for the first time in years.
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Leaf Litter

Mackletree becoming a leaf-littered path. Falling walnuts an increasing danger, where they fall on the road they can give a vehicle a mighty jolt. Remember to drive with both hands, no notes while driving. Caravaggio, 5/28/1605, arrested for carrying a sword without a license. Where does this stuff come from? Left my coffee at home for the second straight day, set it down to pick up something else and forgot it both days. Today, I realize at the bottom of the hill, turn around, go back and get it. Could have constituted a habit, nip it in the bud, the return trip will remind in the future. Caravaggio, 5/29/1606, killed Tomassoni in a duel. He moved around a lot. So have I but I don't have a sword. An extra lunch, left over, at the museum, and Sara tells me to take it home, so I don't have to fix dinner. Nuke, read, eat. For reasons I don't remember, I spent a good while thinking about drawing ovals, the correct ovals, for where a circle would penetrate a plane surface at an angle. Various ways of doing it, acceptable degree of error, methods of cutting said ovals in really unnatural positions, how difficult it is to cut on the line with a SawzAll. Third or fourth worst accident I ever saw on a job-site, Rex, cutting an oval hole in a roof in Ouray, Colorado, through a metal roof and sheathing, slipped on a single drop of water, threw the saw away, and would have been ok, but had a curved-claw hammer in his gear. One always uses a straight-claw hammer on the roof, and if you start to slip, you do the carpenter roll and sink the claw in the roof. Rex did roll, and hit the deck below feet first, flexing and rolling, but still broke both heel bones. On The Various Ways Of Drawing Specific Ovals I have little to say, figure it out yourself. I worked with a guy once, who was so picky about drawing his lines, that he would take a carpenter's pencil, those fat things, and split it on the flat, right at the lead, use the lead side right against whatever he was tracing, then cut on the outside of the line to allow for slop. I, on the other hand, draw a multitude of ovals and cut amongst them. I'm pretty good at this but not really precise. The standards are different, 'good-enough' comes into play. Half-a-pencil width is close enough for me. I'm sure there's a formula for drawing these opals, ovals, but I don't really care. I only trust empiric because I don't do math, I mean, I do simple numbers well but I don't do equations anymore. Wrong side of my brain. Not true, really, because I have a talent there I don't want to talk about, it embarrasses me, but seems germane. I can count things really quickly. What seems to happen is I discern a pattern, do some simple multiplication, and count what's missing, not completely sure, but that seems to be what happens. Maybe the patterns are like musical notes, maybe what I perceive as patterns aren't at all, maybe it's just acorns on a shed roof, fucking walnuts, man. And the useless Buckeye. Pretty sure we're on the same page, D and I, walking through the Richard's Gallery, where the wrack will be installed, 90 seconds, maximum, and we both see the same thing: 'What Will Be In That Space' which we could both create any number of ways, in all honesty, working with anyone, is frightful, I'd rather alone. I do ok by myself, horrible with strangers, and not so good with neighbors. Learn your limitations. Hide your evil self away. You know what I mean, things the Deputy said to me in confidence. Exactly what is allowed? Admitted. Deposed. I don't know, I'm merely another leaf, nothing more, maybe stuck in the in-take. You and your filters. I loved those open-toed shoes, they seemed to carry a message, but I'm sure where I am, you, it. The conclusion I always reach, that you are an extension of me, what you hear.
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