Fog at Dawn

Birds driving me crazy, but this early morning fog is lovely, rolling up out of the hollow. The red maple leaves are turned upside down, and that means more rain. Blackberries blooming. Cheese grits with an egg on top, then I carry my laundry down the hill, take the slow drive down the creek, looking for trillium. There are clumps of iris and daffodils where houses used to be. The creek itself is a lovely thing. I stop at the ford, drive through a couple of times to clean the wheel wells. Stop at Ronnie's and buy a dozen fresh eggs, $2. Stop again, at the place on Route 52 where the cleaned off the over-burden of dirt that kept slumping into the road, now a stair step of sandstone bedrock where I've found a great many fossils. Shane and Tami are bringing the rest of the sculpture show, but they're not expected until after 1 o'clock, so I have time. Bizarre experience at the laundromat, I'd washed my clothes, and went out to the truck, while they were drying, to smoke and read the book I'd brought along. A really wasted young prostitute tapped on the passenger window, then opened the door and asked if I had a smoke. I rolled her one, then she asked if I'd drive her over to the other housing project to get her kid. I said OK, and she yelled out the door for her mother, who was inside the convenience store next to the laundromat, to come on, she'd gotten a ride. So I drive the two of them maybe two miles, and the first thing the daughter says, in front of mom, is do I want to help a working girl earn some money. I say no, and she asks am I queer. Mom laughs. I tell her, no, I prefer fence-posts and geese. She looks at me uncertainly, and asks why. I told her I loved horses, but the problem was you had to get off to kiss them. She didn't understand a word I said. Got back to the museum in time to watch an episode of "Lie To Me" on Hulu, before lunch. Tim Robbins is a very good actor, I like his style. Speaking of which, Liza's new film, her first non-documentary, is playing at Cannes, which is very cool; she and the lead came out to my place, Linda Cardanelli, do I have that spelling correct? We talked for a couple of hours about Appalachia and life-styles. Evidently there's a character based on me in the movie. How weird is that? That I could be both a documentary and a fiction. I love it, of course, because it's germane to the whole conversation about the nature of reality. I seem to be an interesting character. I wonder why that is. What do most people think about? I don't know. Mostly I look at very small things and try and put them in a natural order, AND I'm rarely successful. Why would that be interesting? Liza's movie is called "Return" and I'd be interested in what anyone had to say. Talked with Justin today, about doing original material, he knows they need to do that. Everything sounds liked Marty Robbins. Doesn't matter, so much, what you hear, as that vibration in the inner ear. Nursery rhymes. Shane and Tami came back with the other pieces, from Columbus, for the sculpture show. Great people, wonderful work, and we pretty much set the show during the afternoon, but it strikes me, just before quitting time, that I can't get everything done in the time remaining. We light the show, last thing today, but I need to repaint the pedestals, and do the labels, get the signage, and clean the installation mess, all on Tuesday, plus, do the set-up for probably the largest museum event ever. It's too much, with D away at school and Sara gone, I'm carrying the museum on my back, and I can't do it. The most important thing, to me, is to get this show installed, which I can do, which is my job, a week ahead of the date set a year ago, if I didn't have major events breathing down my neck. There's a fucking Chopin competition in the theater tomorrow, the piano is tuned and I'd cleaned the space; but in the mean time, and this was not penciled in on the calendar, there were a group of kids watching a movie in the theater eating popcorn. I love my job, but I wonder, what is it that a museum does? I have a show to install and I'm picking up popcorn bits. I'm pissed, really, when I leave the museum on Saturday night, because nothing is working out. I'll make it happen, but I'm not happy. Fuck a bunch of happy. Do what you need to do. John Lennon at the end, asking for truth. I'd rather live in a cave and not talk to anyone ever, but I do need to earn a living. More rain, finally, on my hot metal roof, drowns out those goddamn birds.