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Looking at the calendar, I tell D that the next show is a piece of cake. I can hang "Alice" by myself in a day. The show after that is more difficult. Thomas Hart Benton and various other post-modern pieces under glass in heavy frames, anchors in the wall and extreme patience, white cotton gloves, and that care you take with dead presidents. It'll be interesting. The times are changing. The new director burrowed into my back today and hummed, there wasn't anything specific but she needed a post to lean on. I thought I stank, slightly, and she thought I smelled good. I wonder about that. I pretty much smell what I smell like. The various peeps re-infuse my claim. Small pictures don't always convey enough information. Spend an hour going over the calendar, so I don't get blind-sided by something. Confused by a couple of things. "Alice" has to open a week earlier than scheduled, because something else got scheduled incorrectly, looks like to me. Not really a problem unless the delivery date is delayed. Looked at thumbnails for the Mid-Western Post Impressionist show and wish they had included sizes. Hid out in the basement, sorting hardware. I schedule a full bath out on the deck for this coming weekend. Felt the need to schedule something. Covering for D on Saturday will give me a chance to do laundry. Buy Anthony a beer after work, and we discuss a myriad of things artful and otherwise. He's going back to the studio to trim some pots; I head home, up the creek. A lot of fall weeds blossom white, adumbrating winter. I'm ready to be done with this, which would make one more winter a kind of treat: I could burn most of what I wouldn't take to a smaller place. The rest of it, I'll hire Booby to dig a pit, and when the move is done, I'll hire him to come back and cover the midden. Least I could do. The next owners would get not only a graveyard, but a midden. I look at my bottle, and the projected abuse, decide to stay up and think about things. Fucking acorns probably contribute to that point of view. Who could sleep with a military barrage in the back yard? Normally I sleep like a rock, but this season is all about acorns. I gather maybe twenty pounds between where I usually park, and my house, I wear a football helmet whenever I'm outside. God-damn nuts.