Feeling Better

Felt like dog poop this morning, stiff and sore, but that was from all the time abed or asofa with too many books on my chest; coffee and a shave, I was a little better. Left home early, enshrouded in a deep and abiding fog. Thickest in the lower dells where drainage carves hollows, creeks seeking the river; and thick enough at times so that travel was 20 mph so as not to out drive the headlights. Beautiful, the mantle, like a blizzard only still. Wanted to see the river so I drove down below the flood-wall, to a boat launch, where I could have a smoke and drink coffee in the imperfect quiet. These new riverboat pilots, the tug skippers that push a string of barges up and down in the world, even granting their state-of-the-art electronics, are amazing. I could almost see and certainly heard two strings, one going in either direction, pass, in front of me, in pea soup so thick you might be able to recognize a human shape at 50 feet. This time of year, in thick fog, humidity at 99.99%, warm even early, the dew point is at eye level, my glasses fog. And I'm feeling better, which is good, because there's a lot to do. I'm anxious to get the packing boxes out for the ODC show, so I can try to remember how some things were packed. Artists suck when it comes to packing their work, our intent is always to repack better than what was given to us. With this show, "Best Of", the artists package and we deal with it. In the best crates, there are specific pieces of dense foam, coded for position and numbered in sequence. When artists pack they use a lot of egg cartons and old towels. This particular show maybe 10 pieces actually stick out of their boxes, with instructions written on the side: FRAGILE, Don't Stack Anything On Top. Like we'd do that, stack another box on top of an exposed ceramic head. Five elevator loads of boxes and the oddest sensation, with a head cold and taking antihistamines, my equilibrium was off and I couldn't tell if the elevator was going up or down. Being sick is exhausting. Almost completely shed of it now, but after a long day of packing I'm weary and in sore need of drink. Still, D brought his truck so we stopped at the woodlot and loaded four pieces of oak that nearly filled the bed. One never refuses free wood, it just isn't done, bad form or just plain stupid. A local, gifted, painter was in the gallery, yesterday (I think) and he had just bought a place in the country, a great deal, was asking about my wood cookstove, a Stanley Waterford from Ireland and my most cherished companion, which I bought from the Amish Non-Electric Hardware Store in Kidron, Ohio, 10 years ago for $2100. D went online to get the email address for him and the damned things now are over $5900. My advice is to invest in wood cookstoves. My used (hard-used) stove is worth more than my truck. My first cabin, that I lived in for 3 years and sold for a profit, cost $4200 total, turn-key price, including bill of lading to the island, where we reassembled the damned thing (built in the driveway of a rented house on the mainland) and moved in 3 days later. My life is a shoe string, I think. Which reminds me, both D and I did rants today about shoestrings and rubber bands. When artists pack their work, they often secure the "lid" with either a rubber band or a shoestring. Like they never heard of tape. I'm old enough that I worry about the next generation, I fear they won't remember how to wipe their ass. I acted out at the staff meeting, I have to admit, there was no reason for me to mention toe-nail polish, but I tend to look down, and notice feet. It's not quite an obsession, but a card I play, to keep things light. I can do almost anything but I need a little warning. I'm an aging hippy, if you call me too late at night, I'm probably going to be stoned. I could probably help but the solution is questionable. I talk to ducks, I read story-sticks, I'm not a good median to use, to establish parameters, one thing I'm not. But you could use it, as a kind of lover's leap, if you wanted to. My sole goal is just to go asleep. Harvey's poem, I can afford the signs now, coming up the hill, this is the best place I've ever lived, I'm cool with this, what constellates, hey, you know me. .