Minor Chord

I'm divided. Looking at any thing, the thing itself, is high on my list; still I defer to anyone who has looked closely. What print provides is a track record. Storms are forecast for later today, I watch them inch across my map. At least hail, maybe another tornado, surely heavy rain in a short period of time. A deluge. I make what preparations I can, assume I'll loose power, park my truck at the bottom of the hill, make a pot of cheese grits. Life is just a sequence of events and the answer is how you respond. A lightening strike might seem merely normal. Drowning in a sea of oil. Art work arriving for "Cream Of The Crop", some very good, some mediocre. The judging is next Sunday. I've patched, repaired and painted all the galleries. Must prime and paint the entry wall, where signage goes, and it's bright red from the Circus Show, so will need priming and two coats of semi-gloss; taped the edges today, ordered the paint, a Porter color called Gray Flagstone. Would love to have the job of naming paint colors, though I'm sure I would be fired the first day, someone taking offense at Naughty Yellow or Fucking Blue or Shit Brown. Parked at the bottom of the hill again, more storms tonight and tomorrow. And there's something wrong with the truck, left-front wheel bearing I think. Awful noise, and I didn't want to chance the driveway. Nice to walk up, completely hemmed by green walls. Cooking ribs on the roof of Sara and Clay' apartment building, dinner for 11 it looks like, but I've farmed out everything to willing participants and only have to do the ribs. May need to stay in town, because it's impossible for me to do ribs and not drink. Not until the end of the month, when Glenn and Linda are here to screen his Wrack Movie. Screening is June 30th at noon, all invited. Mike? Drew? Be nice to have a crowd. It's a very good documentary. I'm the aging janitor, and get a lot screen time, mopping and such. Fucking Whip-O-Wills are driving me bonkers. They stop, at first false light, I can usually count on getting some sleep then, but with the woods so close around the house, 30 feet, they often wake me in the night with a few hundred repetitions. I would put them, as part of the punishment, not as wrong-doers, in one of the inner-most circles of Dante's hell. If you were to loop a tape so that it ran continually, no one could stand it for 24 hours. Last night I listened to 116 perfect repetitions, before that particular bird stumbled and flew away in embarrassment. Not that long, really, a couple of minutes, but it seemed to go on for hours. And then another took his place. Finally got up and tuned the radio to a good blues show out of Athens, Tracy Nelson singing homage to Janis, cranked it loud, drowned out everything. Sometimes you need to forget. Memory is a can of worms.