Sweet Melissa

Late, and something woke the dog. I get the shotgun and a flashlight, slip outside without turning on a light. Little Sister is cowering on the back porch, turning circles. Something has turned the compost pile inside out. Something large enough to cower the dog. Do the math. Probably a black bear. I can live with that. Retreat to the house and roll a smoke, turn the radio loud and it's the Allman Brothers, "Sweet Melissa", which I consider one of the most beautiful songs ever, then The Dead, "Fire On The Mountain", get a drink, consider this place in time. I am in this moment, ephemeral, nothing really matters, what we might think of as the larger picture, though within that we live our lives of quiet desperation. Whatever cry against the darkness is just a holding pattern, then you die. I've looked at this closely, but the fact is. Given that, what do you do? Retrace a drawing on a cave wall. The best you might accomplish in that life given you to live. I'm just a janitor, I know, but I say don't do anything you don't enjoy. Finally back to sleep for a few hours, then awakened by a glorious sunrise, orange and blue, and the green all around is a glowing jungle. Stop to pick up litter on Mackletree because it offends my eye. We do the vinyl signage, then hang the final pictures on those two walls, get half of the labels dry-mounted, then do the lighting. Another long hard day, but the show is nearly done, we can see it in front of us. I've half-a-day hauling equipage to the basement, getting the floors clean, setting tables and chairs for the gala opening party, for which I will stay long enough to have a couple of free drinks and some finger food, chat with the artists, which I do really enjoy usually. A certain percentage of people are just pricks, it's not to be helped, but artists do tend to be interesting. There'll be much air-kissing and more than the usual amount of casual flirting because the wine will flow. Art, considered reasonably, seems to open emotional channels. On a good night, doing a play for instance, Linda might give us Emily in a way that makes us remember things we hadn't thought about, maybe ever, and we allow ourselves to feel. It has something to do with dropping your defenses and allowing a response to happen. You have to be vulnerable, to learn. I called Zoe because her stick-lady was sagging. Just because you're an artist, doesn't mean you're an engineer; and she added a couple of props. One of the interesting things about her piece, is that it thrusts forward and actually cantilevers, part of its charm, because of that becomes a dynamic feminist statement. I like it. Ephemeral, too, which I also like, and I told her today, when she was adding some props, that I liked the way the hair, which is a spread of natural grass, would age. Because my name is Tom, I'm allowed the occasional time to feel like a pinball wizard. I get this, I often understand what people are saying. It's not something I ask for, it just happens. You need to listen. I need to listen, as a word of advice, because if I don't listen I don't have a clue what's going on. I love that artists come out of left field. A board member, with a caustic wit, was commenting on 'Outsider Art' today, Sara, D and I were outside smoking. I thought one of us would choke to death. James (the board member) had told John, his partner, that they should save the tub of dogshit, because he might need it in the future. Hard not to like where that might be going. Maybe I qualify things too much, but I live alone, and you have to cut me some slack. Time is elastic. If you don't own a clock things are different. I consider myself reasonably regimented, I sleep when I'm sleepy, eat when I'm hungry. Tonight, coming home, stopped at a wet-weather spring, drank a cup of clear, cold, hard water. It was a breath of fresh air. No mediation, me and the aquifer. I could just as well post on that narrow fit where you slid into the lock. But I'm way to the left of even being liberal. So far left I become dangerously close to being right. Or correct, or whatever. First there is a mountain. Paradigms shift. Next thing you you're walking up a scree slope, twisting your ankle. You have your own life to live, I just have to install a show.