Cold Snap

Wicked wind today, and the mid-twenties tonight, but back in the fifties tomorrow. Notorious March. Fuck a bunch of weather. Snow covered the ground this morning, but it was nothing, really, a dusting. By the time I got to town it was all but gone. A friend of the museum has bought a building that used to be a Tea House, and he's giving us all the tables and chairs. I can't move them with D, because he's tied deep into museum business, and Pegi gets me a couple of young guys from the Cirque, and we make several trips, then move the chairs I got yesterday over to the other building. Get back to the museum and the people that loaned us items for the "Ghosts Of Business Past" show are there, to collect their stuff, because they had been misinformed. A logistic nightmare. Everything we had planned to do tomorrow, we do too quickly, but pull it off, in just a couple of hours today. We may have gained some hours. Bent time. There's paperwork involved and we're slack, really, because Kenny signed this show in and none of the rest of us have much of a clue, and Kenny is out on disability. One of those random, incandescent moments. I touched the beautiful Erica on the shoulder this morning. It was nothing, but I had built up a static charge and she was right there. Even if you're not driven by your libido, there are occasional moments, when the self rises through the morass. I might be speaking for just myself here, but the right ankle, in the perfect shoe, might convince me. I'm a cheap date. Late afternoon, I'm removing hanging hardware from the "Ghosts" show. When you do this there's usually a slight pucker, where you pull the nail or unscrew the screw, and I tap it down, with the edge of a hammer, to make a depression I can fill and sand and paint. I do this at close quarters, my eye not a foot from the wall, feeling my way with a fingertip, and I probably look like a madman, staring into the middle distance, tapping the wall, listening for some response, when D and Sara come up behind me. Sara says that usually tapping with a hammer involves a nail and I explain that I'm beyond that, I no longer need a nail, the hammer is enough, we can imagine the nail. The issue is no longer attachment. I could have driven in, but if I walk up the driveway I notice things, the first flush of green, the poplar buds, the way new growth tends toward the sun. Little Sister, the dog, is only interested in food; frisky but not barking, because I've explained to her that I hate noise, she runs circles around me. D and I had lunch at the pub and were having a smoke in a store-front alcove where we often escape the wind, and the Music Guy, Barnhart, found us. We exchanged a huge amount of information in very few words. He said the piano didn't need tuning because it was only jazz. Off-beat. April fool. I think I know what he means. Communication is questionable at best. Sound, like smell, is not a logical thing. Three crows on a new plowed field seem to make sense. But who's to say? Rickie Lee Jones. Butter beans and cornbread. You across the table. I need to get some sleep.