Tweaking

As expected. We look at the show, move some lights around, change to angle of presentation, move pedestals a few inches. The Brent Young crates go in first and must come out first, not a problem with our new and improved storage system. Two separate areas. That weekend reclaiming area from our personal Zuider Zee has served us well. Room for the Modernism show in front of the remaining pedestals. The pedestals won't be needed until after Modernism goes away. Uncrate that show next weekend. A fund-raiser for the Main Street program is a Chocolate Walk through town and we're on the list, so we end up previewing the show for a few people so I can start working on my docent rap about the glass. Six trips to the basement, to stash the crates, then I clean up, police the area. D and I watched, yesterday, as a large doe deer, appearing from the bank parking lot, smashed into the glass door of our accounting firm, two doors down. She bounced off, then charged again, broke through, cut her neck badly, cops finally had to shoot her. Took two shots, as they were, as the man who signs our checks said, god-damned idiots. I could have done a neater job with a ball-pean hammer. Greg, the signer of checks, asked me over this morning for a look around. You have no idea the havoc a dying deer can cause. Two floors, a dozen offices, common space, all spattered and smeared in blood, the floors, the walls, the windows. Bullet holes and a pile of gore where the cops put her down. Tax season, and all the desks, covered with papers, spattered in blood. A printer, sitting on the floor awaiting repair, is covered in brain matter. I take D with me to look at an apartment, but it isn't suitable, and too expensive. I may need to spend a couple more seasons on the ridge. Getting my house in order. I need about 42 feet, maybe a little more, maybe 50 feet, of floor to ceiling bookcases, so I need more walls and fewer windows. Winnowing is not an option because I've already done that. I attract printed matter like a paper magnet. The public library now has a couple of shelves of books for sale, rejects and duplicates, hard bound books are a buck. I buy one every time, because it's cheaper than a cup of coffee. And friends send me books and I buy them, and I get tons on inter-library loan, I need a shelf or two just for them. And periodicals, I swear I am the elephant's graveyard for those. Post-Consumer Trash. I've another midden in me, I'm just not sure where it'll be. One more pile of myself, oyster shells and the seeds of an early grain, traces of acorn flour everywhere. Parsing out meaning. Nothing I'd rather do. I live for the two or three, three or two, hours I might spend writing as few lines. The best for me, because it doesn't involve any compromise. I can't brook compromise, I get fucking defensive. I admit, I'm a work in progress. I don't think I've had a complete handle on anything. Second hand reports. I assumed we went further back than that. I was wrong. Learn to look at the expiration dates. I'd have someone on the staff check for tampering. Just saying.