Watershed

About drupaceous, it popped into my head, thought I was making it up, then looked it up, my god, there it was. Rapid draining of all the hollows, even my little rill was running, and Mackletree Creek flowing in spate, cloudy where it hits Roosevelt Lake; solid 6 inches of napp over the spillway, crashing down into a standing wave. Becomes the old Turkey Creek again then, I say the old because they damned it for the lake, but after the spillway it regains its bed. Out early to drive below the floodwall and check the fluid dynamics. Lots of water, a mini-flood, nothing, really; but there are some small debris fields and I poke around for a while. Several groups and several individual parties looking at the Wrack Show, mostly second timers, coming back to see it before it goes away. One three generational group, grandmother, mother, son, came in and asked for Tom. They were very specific about that. Grandma takes piano from Barnhart, they all live on the river, mother was a marine biologist. We spent a lovely time, talking about wrack, specific gravity and attachment. All the county art teachers used the board room for an in-service (?) day and I docented them through the wrack. I pointed to the goat head and said that if they didn't see a goat, they wouldn't get it, then talked about form and natural edges. I think some of them knew what I was talking about. Interesting to me that I assume structure from component parts, knowing full-well that the parts are going to be disparate. What I love best is imagining for that, conceiving a solution based on not knowing. I don't so much write, as I select. I choose things to talk about. By doing that so much I've learned to talk naturally, I rarely tangle my tongue anymore. This is what I do, come home and write you. We all know what I'm talking about. Frogs or maybe the fox. We were talking about something, a Henry James moment, one of those flashes. I do a great three minutes with the bowling ball: dude, I'm in the moment, my teachers would be proud. I nail an imagined construct and it stands. I needed to feel better about myself, and that three-generational group put me over the edge. It's a good show, despite what's gone down. Make what you will, it's all drainage. Standing in front of a group, holding a bowling ball, explaining specific gravity, I feel like a ninth grade Earth Science teacher; I like it, I'm oddly comfortable, rambling on about air-entrained concrete. Talked with a cop today, about releasing the balls, and he thought it was odd, but couldn't find a problem. I might have to talk with the chief and I don't have a problem with that, I can pretty much talk to anybody, about anything: the chief, about the balls, is cake. Putty in my hands. You make a mold, you pour the molten iron, it's not a big deal. It is, of course, but they don't have to know that, the way you create a void and fill it with metal. I'd like to cast the Wrack Show in bronze, the individual pieces are so special, but there's an ephemeral element at play. Organic constructs disappear, things rot. We're left with only the hard things, rocks and such, that survive. We draw conclusions that are wrong, ill-considered, incomplete, stand by our man, however incorrect he might be. I don't know why we do this, but we do. If I had running water I'd just burn the whole damn thing. A simple fire. What do you do with a show when it's over? Storage is always a problem. You can't save everything. If you draw the map large enough it's as big as the world and there's no place to put it. Who has a wall that large? Mostly, I have windows. I wouldn't trade the world for what I see. Reality for a cup of tea. Are those almond cookies? I could reconsider my position. My ass hurts, and my legs, and my feet, I'm doing everything and it's not enough. A coup-stick with many feathers.