Late Snow

get up to pee, go outside, and it's snowing, nothing significant, but still, I thought there was a rule that after certain things had bloomed it wouldn't snow again. Supposed to be warm and sunny later today, I'm confused, but get the laundry together, make some assumptions. This Russian theater movement, I wasn't aware, started with the Italian Futurist Movement, Giacomo Baila and his manifesto, February 20th, 1909, I just read it, nonsense mostly; but Tatlin taught a generation of stage designers. His influence was huge but he left little actual work, like Wittgenstein, mostly what we have is his student's notes. Lissitzky, Liubov Popova, Alexandra Exter, Moholy-Nagy, they extended his vision and theater was their medium. It's a dead end, but glorious, Moholy-Nagy's Light Space Modulator, Tatlin's wing, Malevich, this is cutting edge stuff, but then there was Stalin, and things were nipped in the bud. Artists, except for McCord, don't carry guns, and they are easy victims. Fuck dental and health care, we should give artists guns, let them shoot their way out. Before I say it, I know it's bogus, but I say it nonetheless. I was out watching the frogs mate, it's a hoot, and I heard the phone ring. It could be my daughter or maybe Glenn. What do you do with a show when it's over? Close your eyes and listen. A squeeze-box, who would have thought. Oh, that's me breathing, and I didn't catch the phone in time. My paper trail is huge. Dirty sock smell, I clean up, get the laundry together, won't have another chance for a couple of weeks, go to town. Stop at the museum (closed) to check the level of damage from the Saturday night Dessert, Irish Coffee, Celtic Music event. Not bad except for the wine glasses used for some sort of parfait and allowed to dry without rinsing. Bad form. Almost a glue, I don't think it was a healthy dessert, the sludge in the bottom of the glasses felt like plastic. Two high-school coaches talking basketball in front of the library. A lady I've folded sheets with, at the laundromat, we talk about the weather; going out of town, skipping all the other stops I might have made, I stop at the 2nd Street Diner for the lunch special, I need to eat more, drink milkshakes, and I had a few dollars. Meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes and a roll for $4, and I sprang for a glass of milk. It wasn't bad, if you have a soft spot for cafeteria food, which I do. We went to Morrison's Cafeteria once a month, when I was kid, and it was a treat, all that stuff that my Mom fixed better, but it specifically wasn't hers. Variety. Never trust a woman over 25 who still calls her father Daddy. Something's wrong. I'm not educated to say what, but something. That could so be taken the wrong way, by any number of people, but I was thinking about his barmaid, Misty, she's 28 and has an 8 year old and one two, whom Daddy watches, when she's away. She might have aborted these kids, but here they are, alive and well, and they compromise her in ways no one warned anything could. She has two kids and I'm off somewhere, safely in the sidelines, stuffing my dick back in my pants. Don't get me wrong, I accept responsibility, but there is something, a blur of colors in the trees, that makes me wonder if this whole thing wasn't set up. You and your fucking camera.