Remains

The legacy of a Class Three Extraction is a back hall floor that has to be refinished. They took everything out that way, so steam cleaned that floor too, and the steam took the Terraglaz finish off. Packing up there glass pieces, paranoia time. The delicate balance between using too much foam, and breaking a piece by compression, and not using enough. K and S both in before lunch, conferring with D. We all went to lunch, then I pack, while D was working in his office, then at four we both managed the large piece. Barely fits through a doorway or the elevator door. We took it off the pedestal, onto a piece of foam, D stabilized, and, on my hands and knees, I dragged it to the elevator and in. Downstairs we carried it (no doorways) to the crate, pinned it in into a muslin shroud (we don't know why that's there) then put it in the crate. It took over thirty minutes to roll and pack it in place with high quality eggshell foam. Got four of the seven crated. I'll finish alone on Tuesday. Had to get home, but after we closed D and I had a beer in Sara's office and smoked a cigaret. It's emotionally draining to pack a show like this one. My hands were shaking. Driving home, green is happening, across the river, in Kentucky. Three ducks, in a snag at the lake, I stop to hear them squabble. Stop again, in the State Forest, to watch a pack of turkeys. They tear up leaf mat, scratching violently, looking for any bug or worm. The driveway is an easy climb in two-wheel drive, I park beyond the puddles, but there are no frog eggs. Don't know what that means. There should be some, from the second fuckfest. Thought I knew my frogs. Supposed to warm up tomorrow, and I've never known them to fail to produce the next generation. Tomorrow night could be noisy. If it doesn't rain, maybe I'll grill a tenderloin, I was just building a rub, cleaning the fridge, the sundry chilies and other powders people had sent me. It's too hot, but that's OK if you blacken the tenderloin, you just get small pieces with a bite. Tonight I dine simply, on olives and brie, but tomorrow I want to cook. A blacked tenderloin, with grilled asparagus and a salad. A decent old vines zin. Dusk, a pileated woodpecker, and I know the very bird, his comb is unique. Like whales and their flukes. Forget what I was talking about, go outside one last time before I put on my slippers, and the last rays of sun are slipping toward the horizon, up-from actually, lighting the underside of the clouds. Several phone conversations later, I realize we're going to make another movie, Glenn is, and my older daughter is electrified by the idea. I merely mop a modified chevron, it's what I do: lean on the handle and answer questions.