Sore Shoulders

We loaded out the crates, Aminah's show, no one remembered exactly how they should be packed. I'd wondered about this, thinking we should have shot some photos, so we'd remember, but we do a yeoman's job, ship the show off to Columbus, and these crates are heavy, make no mistake, that's why the shoulders are sore. They had a Highliner truck, 6 feet tall inside, and the crates were stacked three high, the top one was a bear. Turned my attention to mopping up the second flooded basement in three weeks. No one bothers you when you're mopping up sewer water. Second fill and sanding in the main gallery, ready for paint, signage wall and entry wall ready to paint. Next week we shuffle the permanent collection Clarence Cater paintings, and THOSE walls will need painting also. I see painting in my future. Unless you're a professional interior house painter, I do more painting in a year than most people in a lifetime, which is cool, in a way, seldom get any on me. Heard a funny story yesterday, concerning drug testing, as the Board at the museum will probably be enacting something, to cover their ass, after getting burned, and who can blame them. Oddly, it was D, who does nothing illegal, drinks a little beer, maybe has an ibuprofen problem, but he gets headaches, and we forgive him that, that argued strongly about invasion of privacy, getting their foot in the door to fire someone if a nephew needed a job. Really coherent, strongly worded tirade. I agreed, of course, but understand the Board's position. Everyone knows I'd fail the test. So the wording will be that it is at the Artist Director's discretion and for 'new hires', a grandfather clause that allows aging hippies to work; Sara likes me, understands my unique position at the museum, especially in these changing times, so they won't test me until they're ready to put me out to pasture. But the story, D was still venting and we went out for a smoke. I'm actually just kind of amused by the whole thing, but D is young enough, bright enough, paranoid enough, to want to draw a line in the sand. It's a lovely thing, and I absolutely understand, from my vantage, Old And In The Way (a great album, Sam Bush and Gerry Garcia) and not really caring much what anyone else did. I stay under the radar because it allows me to live my life, I care about the world, and especially one small corner of it. This ridge, now, where I am. The only sound is bugs and birds, the hum of the fridge is probably a bass note but I can't hear it for the noise. The sound-track of my life is mostly bull-frogs and crows. The story was that the CCC camp had closed up shop because of a federally mandated policy that required drug-testing, and EVERYONE, including the Supervisor, tested positive. Every one. I'd test positive to drugs they don't know, standardly toast morning glory seeds with garlic and salt, take a walk in the woods, amuse myself. I don't know what the active agent is there, I only know it exists. Whatever. It's all about control. Look at any issue closely, it's all about control. The most important thing is that they manipulate memory. What you thought you remembered, infield practice, hitting the ball around. This is the game, I'm dying here; I'm tired of moving, dodging the bullet, I'll stand my ground. I need to clean house, vacuum corners, I'm not tidy, I need to put 20 or 30 books away. For most people the situation would be critical, but I don't really care what happens, just that something occurs, and it always happens that it does. Something. I subscribe to that low-key fraternity where you watch your buddy's back. Frankly, why I was so misguided: I thought I knew some things. Nothing unusual, never mind.