Packing Up

Nota Bene: bad wheels are sometimes worse than no wheels at all. Also, in that vein, large crates, that hold several pieces, tend toward too heavy. Just saying. So, James had tagged everything, he worked the Condition Reports and pointed to the next piece or called it by name. I never learned all the titles, this show, for the 62 pieces; I liked looking at the pieces, but artists get weird with titling and it can get it the way. I always look at the piece before I look at the title, it should be common practice, or a rule, or something, because creators are incoherent. I considered just numbering these postings, but the one or, usually, two word titles tend to keep me focused. The rat works well on a treadmill, generates just enough electricity to power a flickering bulb. But if I had just numbered them, there would be a lot of "679, I think", (,"), equally confusing. I choose to ignore almost everything. Neil chimes in, on exactly where I had read a certain quote. Now it (the fact) triangulates, and I'm sure I can find it in Thoreau's Journals. 45 pieces crated yesterday and the last 17 (four large, overcrowded crates) today, stripped hardware from the walls, patched. Distracted last night by the dogs tearing insulation from under my house, so furious I couldn't write. Recycled a bunch of trash, and there was a stack of women's magazines, Redbook, Glamour, and I ripped out the fragrance strips. There's a Britney Spears scent that is one of the worst things I've ever smelled. I forget the name, I threw it away (again), this time wrapped in fast food wrappers (death to any scent: it's the grease, I think), a weird amalgam of bubble gum, a white flowery thing, and a hint of synthetic musk. Like a bad white wine, aged in stainless steel tanks. So bad it made me trip and look like a drunk in the noon-day sun. I'm usually the first one in at the museum, and I was sweeping the back hall, saw Pegi pull in, held the door open for her, and she said "Tom, you've got to help me, can you put taps on these shoes?" "Sure", I said, because I can do anything, really, when it comes right down to it, make a few phone calls, plot an escape. maybe something you'd done at Janitor College. I had never attached taps to shoes, and never imagined I might need to, and here I was, attaching taps to shoes. I thought this was done at the factory, but it's not, because every dancer has different criteria. Exactly where the tap is. A line of storms are building toward the west, I'd better go.