Finger Cracks

The painful time of year. These cracks can be quite deep, make work difficult, hurt like hell when bumped against anything, and I often have to change the two fingers with which I type. The toe is marginally better, the bruising has abated and the toe itself has assumed its new shape, which, with its neighbor (the piggy that had roast beef) now forms the letter 'k'. Staff meeting today and so much going on that we just focused on the month of March, April is just as busy but we don't need to go there yet. I'm frankly appalled by the number of events, but we need to get bodies in the museum, to show them what they have available locally, what a feather in their cap to have this museum in their town. It's the food events that scare me, a soul food evening, coming up, with very good live music and a open bar, god, imagine the floor after that. Red sauce in the grout lines. Fucking grapes, man, did I mention I hate grapes? Right up there with glitter, which is a curse. Maybe worse than that. I don't have the chart of religious failings in front of me, but it might be a sin? Glitter has an electric charge and bonds with certain agents, surfaces, I should say, and there is no dislodging them. It's a bond we mere humans know nothing about. I travel in odd circles, but I rarely glance at the sub-text, it's too busy on the main line. Two people came into the museum today, a father and daughter, they had two paintings that needed restoring, and I recommended Michael, who had restored the Circus painting for us; and then had this idea and went and got D. Michael does demonstrations of this. We could get him to field questions, a great Smart Talk, while he repairs a canvas. This is so interesting on so many levels. I always prefer the elegant, Helen taught me well. The dressing is everything. Barnhart called me back and I told him to go for it, whatever it was. Push it. That's the April Fool concert, I'm getting ahead of myself, a run-away train. April pre-supposes March. A river runs through it. Welcome to Southern Ohio, further north than you might imagine. All the lovely ladies, all the sleeping giants, all the lonely sailors; you take some pots and pans and hit them with a stick. I hate to hear that whistle blow. The wind is rising, it's sure to bring on rain. It ain't cool to talk about people when they ain't around. Cold rain, the curse of the season.