Incessant Drip

Condensation. Metal roof. The dew point. My fickle nature. Reading way too much Faulkner. Who knows what woke me. Since the dog sleeps beneath the house, and when I move she wakes, I can't determine a cause and effect. I might think it is she, but it could well be me. A confusing cycle wherein I wake, or dream I wake, concerning a noise that might have been me. I checked the weather channel, to make sure I could get to work. The driveway is the worst it's ever been. It's so bad you could lose a brand new four-wheel drive truck on a single pass, it's so bad I don't even want to deal with it. But I really must get to town, hang a show, we've already mailed the announcements. That's the deal, you announce something will happen at a certain time, and then you make it happen. The bottom rung, the 'make it happen' part, falls on my shoulders, and I'm ok with that, but it is a burden. The caveat is that you keep things in perspective. What you might be able to do. I'm good, I'm facile, I know what needs to be done. The powers that be, Pegi, Sara, D and me, get this, beyond our simple desires, is to mount a show. This is what a museum does. It's what we do. Do the math, hang a show. Celebrate later. Everything centers at 57 inches. Tomorrow might prove an interesting day. It was. Bull by the horns. Hung the entire show, D and Sara impressed I could do the whole thing alone in one day. Actually, D came over from the college and helped hang a four-stack piece, with which I really did need help. My math wasn't working early, but after lunch, I fairly flew. Mop more, think less, is the catch phrase. The math is confusing unless you don't think about it, which is strange but true. It's a set of algorithms and it's the pattern that's important. Too many numbers to remember, I circle each solution, move on. Hanging 39 pieces used six pages of a legal pad. All but two of the pieces were framed (they were all supposed to be), and those two D and I framed with glass and corner clips. Of the remaining 37, almost half required attention, wire too tight, wire too loose, saw-tooth hangers (which I hate) smashed shut. Bled like a stuck pig from a prick I got from a guitar string someone had pressed into second service. Still it's a very good show, the images; a little blood on the floor hardly matters, I'll mop it up before the opening. I have to do labels and lights tomorrow, and a bit more touch-up painting. God bless Cubist Gray, it is the greatest color in the world for touching up. I had to get a new gallon, flat latex, and I was paranoid it wouldn't match perfectly, but it did, as it always has. Have to deal with the pedestals, we used them all for the last shows and now we need none. Anthony will be folding boxes again tomorrow, directing a bevy of Cirque kids. We seem to have agreed to work Monday, when the museum is closed, to screw together boxes, for the posts and lintels, for the installation in the main gallery. At the pub, having a beer after work, Anthony said his tombstone should read "He Folded Boxes" and I countered that mine would read "He Screwed Boxes". He agreed I was out of my funk. The owners of the pub came down to end of the bar, to have a drink with us, the bar-tender and waitress too, it was the best entertainment in town. There was a convoluted flirtation going on. He said that I said you said, and Astra, the beautiful Chinese waitress, said that in the future, she would only serve me, because my partners, who had embarrassed themselves terribly, weren't worthy of her attention. Take that, you young studs. I can hang a show AND flirt better than you. It's a gift, what can I say?