Recovering

Meant to go home today, but couldn't face the hike up the driveway. Dave can look at my truck next weekend, see if he can fix the 4-wheel drive. Not like I don't have enough to do. Supposed to snow again tomorrow night, and I can't get trapped on the ridge. Got to hang the student show on Tuesday for the Wednesday opening, must restore order in the main gallery, the library and gift shop, where we moved everything for the floor cleaning. The kitchen is a wreck, and there are probably cookies and punch for the opening. The tool room and basement are disaster zones. Taking early delivery of the Modernism Show Friday, and the delicate glass show, for upstairs, next week. My dance card is full. What I don't need is to meet the woman of my dreams this week. Spent a lovely hour with a prostitute at the laundromat, we were the only ones there, a Sunday morning. She called herself Ruby but I don't think that's her name. I refused her services in a nice way, and we chatted while we folded our warm clothes. She's sweet, probably a speed freak because she was trembling in withdrawl. I took her to Tim Horton's, bought her chocolate milk and potato soup, listened to her abused life. I felt like a reporter and wished I'd had a tape recorder or a smart cell phone in my pocket. She asked me what I did, and I lied. I told her I was an Emergency Room janitor at the hospital. It's nice, writing in a warm space. I miss Arial 10 but I'm willing to make some sacrifices. She asked me to take her back to her corner, the southwest side of the old Mitchell Lace factory. Which made shoe-strings, 80 years ago, in the shoe capital of the world, the deserted streets of which I now walk on a regular, though unpredictable, schedule. I sleep different hours, I'm not ruled by sunrise and sunset, the way I was when I just kept a large fire going at the outside of my cave, ate a lot of grilled mastadon. You remember those days? When we fucked anything that moved? I once made love to a warm liver. If we're going to be straight with easy, go all the way. Linda will know what it meant. I only trust a few people. Trust is really difficult. Most people cut a deal and sell you to the highest bidder. I'm fortunate, in the Friend's Department, I have several. They always post my bail. That says something, doesn't it? The quality of mercy. When I got up to pee, four in the morning, I turned on the lights in the Carter gallery and looked at paintings for an hour. Decided white is almost never actually white. Consider snow. When it's really cold, it's blue, and at sunrise or sunset, under the right conditions, it glows a kind of pink. Color is like sound, I don't understand it, the way meaning is constructed. The world goes on, unabated, anything you are is insignificant. We merely try to live as long as possible. Sorry about that, I was just thinking about death, and the way it catches us, every one. There are light touches too, the kiss of humor. One of the few women at Janitor College was a fucking hoot. I loved her. Madeline. She wore cowboy boots over peg-leg jeans. There was a lot of blue. Severe clear. Her boots were spectacular. I'd better go.