Preparations

Moving apace. Actually crossed more things off my list than I added. Bell-weather day. The Ladies brought out all the stuff for the auction, a lot of stuff, some of it very nice. D, between interruptions, matted and framed two prints and a watercolor, I made just one trip to the hardware store. Set up my wine station. I need to clean up on Thursday night and take in a change of clothes on Friday. Everyone else goes home to change, but I don't have that option, because everyone else goes home. I have to un-hang the front wall of the "Alice" show so we can hang the art that's for sale, and I sense that might be an issue, because the artist of the "Alice" show will be there, the show is sequential and narrative, and pieces three through eight will be missing. Not my problem. Tomorrow, I have to meet with the local wine expert and discuss how much to pour and what to say. I'll need to taste them, of course, to arrive at my own conclusions, and I probably won't spit anything out. Promised Sara I'd come in and re-hang the front wall Saturday, I'll have to do my laundry anyway, do some shopping, before colder weather returns. But my god it was lovely outside today. I watched a flock of grackles flying into and out of the Oriental Pear trees in the parking lot across the way, amusing and graceful in their swoopings and turnings. Those particular trees, 800 feet lower than the ridge, are still almost totally leafed, in beautiful scarlet leaves, and the grackles infiltrate a specific tree completely, they're packed in like sardines, and when they feel the Jones to move, it takes dozens of seconds for them to vacate one property and invade another, with various loops between. A kind of play, certainly, triggered by the change in temperature. A really smart set of birds are the ones that live at Home Depot. It's heated, for god's sake. Why migrate when you can live at Home Depot? Of course, within a couple of generations, you've gotten too fat, on pop-corn droppings, to even think about migrating, your wings have atrophied and you're too heavy to fly. Tradeoffs. I heard a great joke, I'll try to remember: if you have one minor fender bender you're not known as Crashing Tom, one night sleeping under the hedge doesn't make you the town drunk, but you fuck one pony. I'm just saying, it doesn't seem fair, she wasn't hobbled. An ungulate in heat, will accept any prick, I've lived on the farm too long. Not that I ever would, but who cares? we're all so different. You might still believe in God and I could believe everything was happenstance. The initial moment is a problem. A huge problem. I choose to carry a butterfly net and act as if nothing is happening. Fuck you and your helmet to helmet contact. I'd prefer something more considered, we might think about contracts.