Working Late

What might be meant, by over-extending yourself, might be as simple as a couple of hours of lost sleep. It might be more than that, but I was looking to establish a lower limit, maybe you lose some sleep, what the hell. Blow it off. What we learn to expect is what we never would. I shot the shit and talked with a lot of people, sold a lot of expensive wine. I had a great crew, moms from the Cirque. I don't like the way cash money is handled at the museum, and I divorce myself from it, I'll pour wine, but I will not handle money. Still, another successful event, and I'm exhausted. Tomorrow I want to rehang the opening sequence of the Circus Show, where you, the spectator, that's not right, you, the what? I'm having trouble here.The other part of me. And right now I have to go to bed. Awake to light bouncing around the bed, dust motes from my stirring and pure hard light coming in aslant. I guess it is around seven, dress quickly in there chill, make my bed, which I always do, go downstairs, it's 6:57, late for me, but I needed to rest. Start a small hot fire, make coffee, read the 11th edition Britannica article on Gutenberg. I'm almost sorry I never did cast type. I knew how. I did cast some, a Linotype casts a line, so does a Ludlow, and I've used them both extensively, but never individual letters. Read Gill, but I never felt moved to design a face. Always more interested in the words. Had to go turn off the radio, the music was diverting me. I enjoy diversion, but when I'm writing I have to sound out what I'm hearing/saying, I need a blank space, white-noise. Then I can hear the cadence, keep my place, remember what I was writing about. My needs. Living alone, the patterns are more apparent. Mine might be described as a loose plan with a lot of bifurcation. When Sara came into the museum today, I was the receptionist, nobody in that slot, but I was there, so I could put my finger in the dike. Sara said she had two golden boys, but one of them was low-maintenance, and thank god. First event I've ever attended in which there were left-over shrimp. The Sesame Beef Tenderloin cubes were great, and the pot-stickers, a deep-fat fried object, were terrific, heart-stopping, I must have eaten a dozen. So there were shrimp left-over, and Sara mentioned a bisque. I'm all over that, bring home several pounds of shrimp, and the other ingredients I'll need for a killer Cream Of Shrimp soup. Put the new blender to the test. I have a vague idea of what I expect. A speculative soup. Not mimesis. More a playing field. An aside: looking up something recently, probably mimesis, I stumbled on 'meiioration', which seems to be the way a word changes over time, or maybe the print was too small and I was misreading. You reach a point in life. A Rabbi and a Monk go into a bar together. I don't, exactly understand the relationship between what I think I'm saying and what you read. I have very little control, many ways, I feel I merely report. Fox in the compost pile, crows in the trees, another descent into winter. But it is the natural world, as close as I can come, that contains the mystery, everything else is mimesis. May I never mention Plato again. Nine days from Sunday. When is that, exactly? There might be a closing argument. You could argue point of view, I never photograph anything, I have a basic exception to everything, I didn't know I didn't know anything. That far removed from the group. Last thing I remember, the leaves were falling, I drew some conclusions. Fall, then winter, my mettle will be tested. Again.