The Woods

Re-hung one painting today. Neither Sara nor D had mentioned it, but it bothered me. It was the usual one inch too high. When I was looking around the room, looking at our center line, 57 inches, it kept jumping out at me. Hauled tools and whatnot to the basement, got the little shop-vacuum (one gallon size) and cleaned up all the plaster bits where I sank anchors in the walls. Tight ship. To avoid the idiopathic malaise that accompanies finishing a show, I plan some outdoor work. Next weekend, after the opening, little sling-blade fest, clipping those awful, dead, sharp, blackberry canes. Still have to make labels (they usually get attached to wall at the magic 57 inch mark) and cook croquettes. Serious business. There was a funny shaggy-dog story D remembered I had told him, when he reminded me I remembered. One of the old janitors at Janitor College, a Mister Dye, married to a wonderful north-woods woman, Martha; I'm sure he had a first name, but we only ever called him Mister Dye, had three sons, all of whom became janitors. Remind me to tell you. The frog egg-cases from that mad first fuck-fest are swollen to half-an-inch. I'm sure the sure the sugars protect against freezing, as long as the puddles don't freeze solid again. That would kill them, surely. The show looks great, when I stand back, and look at the installation. Which I do, with some reservation. This show, I indicate with my cane, is simply a reaction to the development of image that a camera couldn't reproduce. Anything not strictly representational. A large field, but a field, nonetheless. My people should be in touch with your people. We could all freeze to death, there's no reason we should die alone. Look at her flowers .I just thought we might talk. Mostly, it's numbers, look back on yourself: mostly numbers. The winner is.