Spring Storms

American Tonalism. A book from the library. Stuck at the museum, flooding, torrential rain, water in the basement; I'm pumping it out now. I was watching Hulu, catching up, when the server went out. Trip to the basement, to check the pump, then to the library. I don't know exactly what Tonalism is. For that matter, I don't know what Easter is, bunnies and bonnets, a ham or something more kosher. Electricity and phone were out at the house, when I left in the rain this morning. Water everywhere. The spillway was running 14 inches of napp, which, hitting the curbing at the bottom, set up a standing wave four feet high. Frothy red clay. The roads are flooded. Painted a nearly perfect green stripe on the entry hall. Handsome. The the first coat on the ugly blue wall, tough free-hand cutting of edges. D stayed an hour late, sump-pumping, I told him I'd stay, do it again tonight and again in the morning, then go home. Supposed to get a hard violent cell later, and I want to watch for where the water gets in, but I'll make it home tomorrow, even if I have to go the long way around. I work better at home. The hard life is easier. Driveway held up well, the chamber kept the water in the ditch, and the flow was self-cleaning. The top culvert, 14 inch diameter, carries most of the water away, and it sounds like an aircraft carrier at takeoff. Jack Cassidy, playing base for Hot Tuna. Thinking about the next movie, I'm Glenn's Klause. Run me through a few hoops and see what I say. I like the idea of working without a script, at least initially, to see where we might go. Always favoring Barnhart's music. Becoming a tone poem, maybe I do understand Tonalism. To contain a certain drift of pallet. Broad reaches of art are more informative than whole segments of reality. The janitor, in yellow rubber boots, cleans shit off the floor. Quite the picture. Was that just yesterday? D and K were watching me scrape rotted plaster from the ledge they had decided I needed to paint. From their vantage, on the balcony, it was simple enough, but what they requested; when you got into the rot, was more difficult. No matter. What needs to be done, and it's a good call, that particular ledge looked awful. I'm on a ladder, with my head just above the ledge, K has gone off, to answer the phone, but D is hanging around, watching me work. I've raised the blind, to allow access, and tangled the cord in the slats, so it doesn't get in my way, and a woman walks by, on the sidewalk outside, she fairly glides and I admire her ankles. It's all I can see, but D calls me a pervert. A Vermeer, perhaps a Stieglitz photograph would jar your memory. Just one color, or black and white, minimalism, a simple spread of color. Intrigues me because I am a fan of simplicity, the way shadow may introduce color, or even the idea of color. Taking or defending effective depositions is not my cup of tea. May-pops and black cohost spring in clumps, I could sell roots for a living, but it's too much work. Been there, done that, you don't need to know, now, all I want is quiet. What I get are squall lines that shake the museum floor. Peace (piece) of mind.

Tom

Four pages I think
I can hammer into
a paragraph.

Bird song in the morning reduces me to tears. Just saying.