White, Black

Theater was black, naturally, but that Damned Brit wanted it white for a play, his stage manager had started the painting, priming. Walls not too bad, but the floor was half white and half black, needed painting, black, again, for a function tomorrow. Thus I amuse myself. Janitor duties included proofing Pegi's major press release, docenting a group through the galleries. I'm perhaps not oddly good at this. Sharing enthusiasm about whatever takes my interest. Driving out this morning, down by the lake, two birds swooping across the road, Brown Thrushes I think, couldn't have been much else, that color, that size. Patterns. Still a good flow over the spillway and Turkey Creek is looking good; a shale and sandstone bed erodes quickly, creating many small waterfalls. They're beautiful, sparkling things; after spate has receded, the fines have all dropped out, the water is perfectly clear and fairly shines dropping down to the next level. I note spots where I need to find a place to park, later, enjoy the new configuration. Drainage is always worthy of attention, there's usually something interesting about the mechanics involved and the strata. The wet-weather creeks that drain the ridge, that parallels the river, are infinitely interesting. Just want to get downhill, carving a path, what water wants to do. I know most of the rills locally, have watched them in action, and they're good at what they do. I only ever subtlety try to alter what water can do. The play was canceled so now the whole primed theater needs to be black, again, because theaters are always black. Trying to hide everything, smoke and mirrors. Black is best, when you're trying to lose track of things, I wear black jeans, maybe there's a connection. But wait, the jeans were given to me, maybe it's a conspiracy. This could be layers deep or simple, pick a number. The driveway is my measure, B found it necessary to carve deep ruts. I think it meant something but I'm not sure, he might have been merely pissed. Question: if I block the driveway with my truck, because I consider it (the driveway) in delicate condition, what right does he to shove my truck out of the way. I probably need to leave. I don't want confrontation. I can build another house. All I need is a phone-line and you, I could be in the Gobi Desert, without a clue. There are only two important things, me and you, everything else pales, right, right, if it was me I'd probably make me into a character, a suicide friend that offed himself to say something. Bottom line, I don't understand. Thought I did but I don't.