Archival Spit

In the museum business, it's archival everything. Very real, but the word almost loses meaning. D was showing a couple of us the Baker Method for cutting mattes. He's quite good at this, and we were using the demonstration to matte and frame a letter-on-drawing by a name artist, found a frame of the appropriate size with archival backing, trimmed the un-square letter, cut an archival matte board. The last step is hanging the paper on the backing using archival rice paper tape; carefully marked, turned over and the tape is applied to the back. It must be moistened slightly and D merely licked them, looked at me, said "archival spit". Cracked me up. New part-time temp to cover our computer asses while D goes back to school, James, a Library Science guy, and bright; he'll help me hang shows too, make some pick-ups and deliveries. Breaking him in today, second day of packing the show from hell (the packaging, the show is great) and he helps me so D can design a bunch of mailings for upcoming events. I can only teacher by example. I explain the steps, some of the possible problems, explain that mostly problems will come up that you haven't seen before and how it's necessary, to do this work, to extrapolate from the known into the unknown. I've learned to give my problem-solving instincts free reign, and I'm good at this, I'm told; I know, actually, because of the dozens of times, in remote places, that I've solved problems, often using baling wire and a piece of bacon. Sunday night projected in the 40's. I think about firing up the cookstove. 6 weeks at the end of hot weather and cold weather, merely cooking is enough to heat the house. The cycle comes around, when I need to heat and when I need as much heat as possible. My menu, my diet, changes with the way I cook and the way I heat. I just went off into an extended reverie about bean soups, I make a dozen of them, or more, and I love them all, and Mom had foisted this crock-pot off on me, when I was down there in June, and I decide to get a jump on winter and make a white bean and ham soup for the staff, a kind of what-do-you-call-it, pot luck. It strikes me that it's quite strange that I'm here, right now, smoking in the alley, with the director, talking about toe-nail polish. I joke about a great many things, I assume you understand. At root we are serious, the things we talk about, you and me. Talk to Brandy, it's still possible to misunderstand almost everything. Sharee asks could we build a certain table, of course we could, we, actually can build anything. I understand doubt and miss-trust but there is no doubt we can do what needs to be done. I meet you on the street later, you're dancing with someone, he wears a strange hat, I see you make a strange hand touch thing. My only clue is meaning.