Getting It Done

Up against it. X number of things that need to be done, Y amount of time. So many things that weren't even on the list that I can't even remember. I had a mental list of janitorial duties, Pegi's Cirque is in the museum theater tonight, so I had to address that. Clean the theater, clean and stock the downstairs bathrooms, but those are sidelines, I perform those duties while other people talk on cell phones and something much more interesting is put on hold. I don't like being in the middle of doing something and the other person you're working with has to take a call. Whatever happened to agents? Fucking Luddite, I don't carry anything other than a knife. D, in a couple of emails and a slightly sarcastic phone call, has gotten Fed Ex to deliver on Monday, when we're closed, with the "Alice" show. He, Sara, and I agree to meet at the museum on Monday, do some work, unload the show, unpack the show, and at least see what we've got. At the end of the day I saw that Sara saw what I had seen. We could do it. That it would be done. But it was pushing a little hard, and that dufus preparator hardly knoweth in which direction the morning sun would rise. I'm sore in my shoulders, and I can't remember what physical act might have caused it. One of the cool things about writing to you, is that I don't leave any filters. Maybe just a few, against my potty mouth. My cursing is legendary. But mostly I don't intervene. Someone says something. We either agree or disagree. I think you're full of shit, but I'm just the janitor, what do I know? So I do it your way. Everything else, I do my way, and that's fine too. I could vacate this life, the ridge, in two weeks, a week, a couple of days, overnight if really necessary. Being a Navy Brat comes in handy. Moving from place to place. Any new situation provides interest. Not like I'd be bored. Folding boxes. Melissa. What engages me now is the inner-connectedness of things, how a direction might be indicated.