More Flooding

Server’s down, but K set me up so I could write someplace else and SEND tomorrow. Deviation from the norm. When it comes to writing I’m such a creature of habit. Big rains, flooding, I decided to stay at the museum, monitor the water in the basement. Chairman of the Board came right over and we talked about the phantom drain. Same conclusions. Hydrostatic pressure. I know what to try first, but I need for things to dry a bit and figure out how to remove the (failed) clean-out without getting 20 gallons of water under 7 pounds of pressure in the face. Linda, responding to the ongoing conversation about punctuation, said that, as an actress, she found that when she could crack the punctuation she better understood the part, what was being said. Then Grimnir posted that lovely punctuation piece. Made me want to read “Gravity’s Rainbow again, which I certainly will, but now is not the time. Next winter. Made 46 labels this morning, for the high school show, “Visually Literate”. Spray glue the paper text onto matt board, then vacuum-press them, then trim them, then make little circles of blue painter’s tape around my finger, two loops on the back of every label, press them to the wall, with the bottom of the label at 57 inches, which is the visual center/line here. Mindless work, but time consuming. Pegi wants me to do a show of staircases, so her Cirque students could slither over and through them. It would be a great show. An enormous amount of work, but I have friends that might build a staircase, for such a show. I imagine six of them, four that lead up to a platform, maybe 12 feet square, with an interesting railing, and two of them free standing, maybe with landings. Pegi would have to sell the installation to a couple of other places, the materials, even at cost, would run to a few thousand dollars. Foolish speculation, but it is interesting to think about. Anthony calls, we’ll meet for a Paddy with a Murphy’s back, later. I’m distracted, flooding and all. I don’t know where anything is going. I’m comfortable here, writing you, that’s really all I know. You look all your life for that, don’t you? A place to be comfortable. Right now, shoes off, in a sagging sweatshirt, warm, who could ask for anything more? The jazz standard. Single notes slung off into tomorrow. The way it happens. No expectations. I’m way beyond that. What’s remains is a charnel pile, a midden, a dump of some sort; not the slight depression and the scent of you on the pillow. That part was certainly a dream. A mist becoming a fog. I tried to call you, the line was busy. So it goes.