Saturday Duty

A good thing, as it happens, that I worked today, still much to do on the ceramics show. Probably go in Monday for a few hours. An extra hour today. Trimmed the labels, which are printed on paper then spray glued onto card stock, need trimming, each one on all four sides, because it is the natural of this technique to be crooked. Then set about sticking all the pieces (handling them all yet again) down firmly with museum wax. My first years of theater, we used a mortician product, labeled, I swear, Wound Filler, to secure Set Dressing, the crap that's scattered about on a stage set, on the mantle, anything moveable, because many actors are real "method" and that involves touching. Fucking talent. Way home Friday, at the flat place outside of town that is the designated spot for leaving trees or branches, the power company, the tree guys, everyone leaves wood there, and it's free for the taking, whatever is left, two or three times a year, a company comes in with a really large chipper, 16 wheeler size, comes in and grinds mulch out of leftovers. A good system. I saw from the road, the piles maybe 200 yards away, that there a LOT of sycamore branches. It's pretty good firewood, not quite as good as oak, and can be hard to split, but free for the taking. I take a load Friday, another today, probably Sunday and Monday too. Certainly an Asplunt dump, I know their equipment, they grind anything onsite less than two inches, and the trunks are missing (the crews sell them, saw-logs, for extra cash) and most of the branches won't even need splitting. My favorite firewood. Since firewood was on the list, I don't have to feel guilty about yard-work. I'm ricking them up in the open, to dry through the summer. Ricked two by two, 3 and 4 feet long, 3 and 4 inches in diameter. This is gold, perfect wood, I want it all. I'm so far ahead of last year and the year before, I cringe, now, at living that close to the edge. It must have been important, it was certainly stupid. I'm still adjusting to this lifestyle, where I pretty much just do what I want to do. If it's necessary to reread Proust, again, because there's a new translation, I sign off on the rest of my life, other than earning a living, and reread Proust. If it's necessary for me to write you at 3 in the morning, I do it. I was so paranoid about the shelves for the pottery, that I got Pegi to come out and hang from them. I'm so paranoid that I only almost believe her, watching her hang from the shelf. I think it's passing strange that I would be at the museum now, right when they need me, the best job I've ever had, simply solving problems, elegantly, if possible, and making people laugh. A matter of course. I don't really figure things out ahead of time. Don't have a clue, but this is perfect wood, take out the fucking earplugs even though I never wear them. I listen closely, to everything, it drives me crazy. Of the senses, sight, sound, and smell we don't understand, say what you will. I'm running a survey, under a different name, trying to get some information, but the results aren't in. More thunder and lightening. I saw that. It banged around. What you thought you were saying. Listen, dude, nothing is what it seems.