Dog Fight

Not something you get used to. Snarling jumble of dogs at two in the morning. Little Sister runs them off but she gets cut up pretty badly. I go out with a flashlight and the jug of sodium chloride, flush her wounds. Not an easy chore, I have to hold her down with a foot on her neck and catch the back two feet with the other foot; the headlamp Howard sent is a godsend, flushing the wounds and blotting with an old tee-shirt requires both hands. She's ok, she needs some stitches, but I stop the bleeding and don't feel like getting bit, which stitching her would entail. Fuck a bunch of punctures. Faulkner and the natural world. Dog eat dog. Bean soup in the crock pot has the house smelling wonderful. Finally get back to sleep after four, up at six. Beautiful sunrise with birdsong. Meet D at the museum, go for coffee and a scone; back at work I leave him alone, as he has a major flyer to design, a double fold with much text. At lunch he allows that he should get a copy off to Sara by the end of the day, final corrections tomorrow. Ship the Carter watercolor out. Mid-afternoon we get the master calendar off the wall and study the upcoming schedule. I'll be gone for two weeks plus a day, May 12th through the 27th. Visually Literate closes while I'm gone, so the upstairs will be empty, D will have a chance to patch and repair. The big show downstairs closes the 29th, 62 pieces in 14 crates that James and I will have three days to pack. Ships out Friday, June 4th, the next show, a monster, in all three galleries, starts arriving on the 4th, all entries in by the 12th, judging on the 13th, opens, with huge reception, on the 18th. We'll have four days to install a show in three galleries. Ace in the hole is that D will be done with school for the year, so this is possible, but barely. The bean soup is so good I have to stop and eat a bowl, with buttered saltines. The crock pot, I have to admit, despite being a Luddite, is a superior vessel for cooking soups. Everything is retained, you have to be careful not to use to much liquid, but in my case that's not a problem; I need to boil the 'sauce', and put it to bed under some fat, sauce confit, for my time away, because I'll surely need it when I get back, for ribs and London Broil. I could write a book about the sauce, from maybe the sauce's point of view. This latest batch is at least 8 years old, with a complexity of flavors that defies description. I'd sound like some asshole wine guy, talking about metallic fruitiness. Right now she (I think of the sauce as feminine, but I don't want to come across as sexist) is moderately hot, deep into peppers and Asian spices, with a broad base of dark beer, red wine, and mixed fruits. This week, before I leave, I'll boil it with some bean juice and marinades. Everyone should have a sauce. I've offered starter kits before, but no one has ever taken me up on it. Probably do ribs when Glenn and Linda are here, they both like them quite a lot, with a horseradish slaw and potatoes of some sort. Maybe we can do them on the roof of Sara and Clay's building, ask a few people over. I hope to get lodging for G and L there, with running water and everything, maybe take a shower myself. I could feed 10 or 12 people, if I had the right grill, and someone else paid for it. I can barely afford me and the dog, though several people have mentioned that the dog eats better than them. Jesus, I think, I feed the dog on pennies a day, a squirrel, out-dated chicken broth, and remaindered egg noodles. It was very good, I ate some before I gave it to her. No reason dog food can't taste good. Though that's probably an applied aspect, something over-laid. I'm cooking anyway, I might as well cook the dog something. She, at least, dances with joy. The mouse I was trying to remember earlier. Time, the universe, it's all too much, really. We're on the edge of something, but we don't know what it is. I can say something to you and you seem to understand, we've been down this row so many times. By 'this' I mean the natural world. Nothing matters, but everything relates. The nature of the beast. Saussure imagined a system beyond his analytic method, invented the term 'semiology' (the science of signs) to describe a field of study. Nothing furthers, everything gains. Mass times velocity, or some such algorithm. Momentum. I (the writer) only exist, insofar as I am read. Which puts the burden on you. I only exist as an interpretation, ephemeral as fog. Now you see me, now you don't. I stake no claim, what did Emily say, I'm nobody. Words to that effect. And it's true. I only exist as an artifact of what you read. The dog may not be real, I never ate a morel, there isn't really even a museum. I live in NYC and made all this up as an exercise. Fooled you. Fooled myself, for that matter. I really wanted a dog.

Tom

Three crows
working a road-kill,
I can't even tell
what it was.