Going Home

Luncheon with a talk by the curator of the Modernism Show. Informative. Set-up involved the morning, clean-up the afternoon. Hung over, too many whiskeys, but the music was outstanding. Anthony, K and I, met for a round then Anthony had to back to a kiln he was firing, K and I stayed for the music, jam, really good. Sat at the reception desk, the last part of the afternoon, read about Fauvism. 1905, only lasted a couple of years. I like some of the work a lot. Doing away completely with drawing on the canvas, and filling in what is drawn. Just color. Paint on canvas. The first round of frog eggs bought the farm. Frozen solid, disappeared into the muck. Warmer nights late this week, and I expect the 2nd frog fuck fest. The first sign of Spring, being awakened in the night by copulating bull-frogs. Excellent. The scene is still as stark as can be, a few buds, the poplars; no green to speak of, just a few tufts of those earliest plants, pushing through the leaf-litter. All the young bramble, the first year growth, is twisted by the wind. Under-story grows fast, to catch the sun, but is weak compared to even a very small tree. Which then shades out the under-story and you work to whatever climax. I add some hyphens just because the red lines are driving me crazy. On the way home, I had to stop at the lake, the ribbon of water, going over the spillway, was between eight and ten inches, a blanket, flowing to the sea. The flooding is significant but not a real danger. Some roads are closed. Go around the long way. Sometimes a way you've never been. At the museum, I seem to be the docent of the moment, and I'm more than ok with that. By the time a show is installed, I know it pretty well. One of the board members asks me for guidance. I walk her through the show, pointing out things, she makes notes. I felt a little weird, a feeling I looked at later, considered. Not unlike that feeling you get when you take credit for some fortuitous coincidence. It looks like you did something, but you didn't really do anything. I'm on this like a Blue-Tick on a coon. The way we assign meaning. It's a joke, right? Fucking Robins, shitting in my yard. Or whatever. A wave of leaves, from down the block, they had to blow them somewhere, and I'm in a fenced yard without a blower. You know what that means, up the creek. Not only my own leaves, but everybody's else. I start sentences with something in mind. Usually just a vague idea, usually a noun, and I don't have a verb yet, but I have sources for verbs, I can always find the action. A soft light falls. Make what you will.