Nothing Really

A cross between a crow and a house-hold god carved from coal. Something dream-like, closer to a nightmare, where the edges fold inward; you're on a very high scaffolding and it starts collapsing. Calmly fishing for cod and overwhelmed by a rogue wave, driving home from work and a gaggle of geese slam into your wind-shield. After I turn off Route 125 onto Mackletree anything can happen. Success, talked with both daughters, back in good graces. Maybe the last morels, 1/2 pound or so, three tablespoons of butter, one of olive oil, two tablespoons finely minced shallot, just heaped on two slices of slightly toasted sour dough. Basement at the museum flooded in recent hard rains, mostly dried by today. When it floods down there, the basement toilet become a fountain. Had to clean it up before the whole building smelled of sewer. Excellent task for the Zen Janitor, my no-body not smelling. Bottom of my shoes stank. Serious napp (from the French for blanket) at the spillway, a sheet of water 10 inches thick, looking like glass until it hits the bottom, where even the fractal surface of shattered water manages a fairly uniform appearance. Violent and loud, it actually looks serene. I put some ear-plugs in my pack. I like the sound, but I want to see how different it might look with just a muted sound track. I've got some good ear-plugs. Maybe get a shooter's headset, whatever those are called, wear them an entire day, see if it changes the way you see. Sara said there were enough people looking after the short term, doing it well, and she wanted me to look at the long term. Which is fine by me, because in the short term I'm mopping sewage. Need a new mop head: oh boy, another trip to the Cleaning Supply Store. Simple pleasures. Installing a show and D isn't here, unexpectedly weird, realize it means I have to do everything; I'm sure I can, that's not a problem. The only potential problem, and its been proven to be not true, was that working full-time at museum would keep me from my reading. I just sleep less, it's not a problem. A good book is way better than bad dreams. Barnhart wrote me a wonderful message, I laughed until I cried. He has a way with words. Fucking woodwind players, licking their reeds, I don't know what they're doing, something occult. Julia calling warblers with a tape recorder. Power out again last night and again today when I got home. Stopped and got a footer, too tired to cook. On my feet all day, getting the ceramic ready to open. I'm staff tomorrow, so I can trim the labels and get all the pottery stuck down securely with museum wax. Break out the plexi bonnets, maybe someone can clean them while Sara and I label and light on Tuesday. Quite the punch list I started the day with, crossed off almost everything, weary at the end. Attached the 2, 3, and 4 foot shelves to various walls with French Cleats, an elegant attachment, then painted the shelves and touched-up all the peds; which meant, of course, talking all the pottery off, remembering how it was set, end of the day got most everything restored. Finally stopped, 4:30, when I realized I shouldn't handle any more pots today. Show opens on Wednesday, and we'll make it. Wednesday at 10 and I get there before 9 so I'll even have a final hour for cleaning. Tuesday at 3 we put the bonnets on, extra help from the cirque. Two of them will be difficult. I'm already paranoid. There is no margin of error. The verges, though, on Mackletree were mown, and already lovely, despite the fire. Upper Twin is beautiful, I stop to smell some flowers, then drive on down to the ford, wash my undercarriage by driving back and forth. I remember a couple of cajun jokes, shaggy dog stories, and chuckle. Moshare and Zarbi, a backwoods Sufi pair. Finally get home, toke and get a drink, fit for nothing, I eat my footer and read movie reviews. I don't even watch movies, but I read reviews; I'm on the brink of starting to watch movies, watch one a day for a couple of years, catch up. I like movies, don't get me wrong, but my primary way of getting out of my own skin, or head, is to read. I easily assume any author's imagined readership, because I write; I know what imagining someone understands something means. It's all about connection, right? attachment. Don't get me started.