Regarding Nonsense

Children's theater can be very funny. Watched a few minutes of rehearsal today and a couple of the lads and lasses are quite good. Young toad, over six feet tall, is a presence. The moms painted the boat and the car, the caravan tomorrow, one of them even buying the yellow paint. The kids were adamant that the various colors be the same as the illustrations in the book. Which book? Damned thing's been illustrated by everyone, but in the text, if we hold to that, the boat is blue outside and white inside; the car is not red (the one he wants is red, the next one) and the caravan is yellow, when the moon comes out to listen. Power out, damn it, I wanted to write, now it's already the next night with another day between. Picked up two more Michael Gruber novels at the library, a very fine writer though a little convoluted. Some work on the stage, set some lights, replace some bulbs, move the main drape downstage. The moms and kids arrive, D and I lunch at the pub and are quite funny doing our old-guy ---young-guy routine. Get our daily sports as ten minute highlights on ESPN above the bar. I'm off, in my mind for a couple of hours, doing Thursday janitor stuff with the temporal body, but for some reason I started thinking about building Pegi a studio for the Cirque. I imagine a building that's 3456 square feet and just how I'd build it. But the Cirque needs to be physically closer to the museum, that's the most important criteria, other than the existence of the Cirque, which is threatened, if they lose their rented home. On an hour's notice I'm told we'll be taking delivery of: the decorations, 68 chairs, 13 tables, some cases of bottled water, and boxes of attendant things. I don't mind this, I like to stay busy, but I like to be warned. Then Trish chooses this very afternoon to go to Sam's Club, lord knows, someone had to go, so that she is specifically not there when the shit she knows about is delivered. I don't say anything to anyone, I just unload the stuff and stand out of the way, lock up the museum, and leave Pegi, Sara, and D talking in the back hall. It's my birthday and I stop for a footer on the way home, some fried onion rings. Take them back to the island, eat them with a beer, reading an essay by Virginia Wolfe, imaging it could possibly matter. Several of the moms, now that I've built some scenery, look at me differently. Drawing concentric circles I told Janet to consider string, to make a circle, and she looked at me as if I was something alien. Yes, she said: that what happened is a matter of habit. I have some habits, I wonder how subject I am. We go along in that vein, what has happened. I notice things, sometimes they mean something, it's a spread-sheet, yes or no. Crows are smart, that whole Corvid family, beady eyes and all, they make us look like numbskulls. Consider a piece of string, too short to be saved, might describe an arc. Hold my hand, follow the line. Probably close enough. It's scenery, nonetheless.