Forming Committee

Anthony, K and I. Formed all the croquettes, 160 of them, in three hours this afternoon. A melon baller, then rolled in flour, then dipped in a milk and egg mixture, then rolled in bread crumbs. Figure to start frying them about 4:30 for the 5:30 event. Keep them in the warming closet. We ran some experiments this afternoon. KAT Squad. Noon Smarttalk with Brent Kee Young tomorrow, then the opening. Then a break. Clear some brush. It was pointed out to me that I hung the show, did all the labels, mopped the floor, and tomorrow make croquettes for the patrons. Only because I had two weeks, enough time. In China, I read today, there are strict new guidelines for reincarnation in Tibet. The monks have to get a monthly sticker. Lunch alone, a beer after work alone. High in the art of suffering. Yesterday, the entire staff, except for me, and D calls today to say he's bad down in his back and has a Doctor's appointment tomorrow. I've got a list, of course, the things I need to get done, before the opening. Barb, the owner at the pub, is reading me right now, "The Cistern" and was not the first person, over the years, to say that they could only read a page a day. Exactly the way it was written. I read a few pages tonight. It holds up pretty well. She also mentioned that she'd never read anything so intense. The composition of that book, a page a day, after working hard physically, adapting the cistern to a studio, was intense. I ate fairly well, I had to, it was winter and the work was outdoors. The computer ---this at least iconic, if not apocryphal--- was on a sheet of plywood on saw-horses. I had a lawn chair. Running water, but no heat other than a wood-stove, piped out the flue of a great huge fireplace. An intense time. I was very close to crazy. Knew I'd tapped into something, and wasn't going to let go. I missed my girls terribly. I'd been with them for hours a day, up until the separation, then, nothing. Woke up sleeping under my truck in Utah. I had just room to roll over. A truck makes a good tent, as long as it's not leaking oil. You simply park on a high spot of ground. You can live out of even a small pick-up, a king-cab is like a bridal-sweet, a full-size truck, king-cab, is died and gone to heaven. You could sleep a guest and neither be uncomfortable. Put the books on the floorboard, lay your pallet down, maybe you could use an air-mattress, you know, to even out the spaces, so we'd be on the same page, if we were to find ourselves, talking about that. Whatever it was. A difference in level, or something other. Maybe the way you had felt about him or her, or the way anything else felt. Something else. Could we agree on anything? I don't think so, What we hold is tight to the breast. Mostly, your neo-Americans are lame. Look at the history of the modern horse in North America. Consider volcanic glass. A sharp point and a fast steed insures an easy winter. What I mean. You could argue otherwise. I don't know well enough go otherwise, I operate in a very narrow band of the spectrum. What I see. Really just reds and yellows. So I ask you, what is modernism?