Fog Tube

Like a worm hole., stretching along the river. I wanted to be in it, so I walked down. Tube fog is often very thick. I've done this a few times before, but this time I saw the fog, first, then wanted to be there. As opposed to discovering, on the occasion of coming to town, the phenomena. An almost gritty fog, laced with the smell of river, fuel oil and fish perfume. The best place to walk, because an average tube of fog only extends 20 feet or so over onto the bank, you need to be close to the river, is the large paved (bricks and concrete) boat launch cum port-of-call when the tourist stern-wheeler makes a stop. Walking downstream from the amphitheater to the ugly jetty, and back is a goodly hike before coffee. We uncrate the glass show and it is beautiful. It's incredible, the obsession necessary to make something like this. Large geometric forms, often inter-penetrating each other, formed in twisted glass rod. They're weird in other ways, they pick up vibrations and sing very soft harmonics. I immediately picture myself, dressed, as I always am, as a janitor, wearing the headlamp Howard sent me, crawling around the gallery, tapping the floor with a rubber hammer. The janitor can do this. Uncrating the glass show, the crates are half-inch OSB, oriented strand board, I got an oriented strand wedged deep under the nail of my left little finger. It broke off, I can't get to the rest of it, and it hurts. I disinfect it by soaking the digit in alcohol. Has to grow out, I guess, unless I drilled a hole and tried to get it out that way. Hit that finger with a hammer and lose the nail? There are options. We install the show, move things around, I have a feeling we're going to move things around again tomorrow. Par for the course, and great fun, actually, handling the work. The largest piece, did I say that these things are large? Seven of them almost over-fill the upstairs gallery. The lighting is key, lit correctly the pieces are electric. The largest piece we had to uncrate in the downstairs hallway to get it in the elevator. Barely fit. Not heavy, but very awkward, we have to assume the Sumo Pose and walk in short shuffling steps. I don't understand why the older guy has to walk backwards, would seem more a young man's game. John, the husband of the couple that own the pub, had asked if I'd drink with him. We're both drinking Murphy's stout and he stands us to a round of Paddys Irish, and the barkeep wants to drain a bottle of Jameson to get ready for the Friday night crowd. I buy a last round of Paddys, because it seems only right. I barely escape with my identity. Such as it is. Fucking scum-wad that dug post holes. We have our eye on him. He did that then. The various thats. If I follow myself closely, I lose tract, I forget where I was living. That particular night. Watch the way heat escapes, Im sure it was filmed. All I'm trying to do, as a favor to a friend, is to say whatever.