No Way

Leon playing with Elton John, singing a song for you. Creative artists do what they do for attention, even poets are just looking for a port in a storm. Life is one long emergency. When I woke up this morning, realized I had tweaked my back, sprain or strain or something. Odd that Kim, in Tallahassee, did his at the same time. This is an injury workers know about. I don't even have aspirin at the house, so I quick shave and head to the museum, where everybody has pain-killers. Anxious to get started packing up the Midwestern show. Serious business, so I take the time to set myself up with what I need. A roll of bubble-wrap, several rolls of clear packing tape, a six-foot table covered with a thick packing blanket, a trash can, a clean pair of white cotton gloves. I work slowly, alone, being careful, mindful and mindless. Sara calls and we talk about the next show, and she says I'm been wirting well, and I thought I had been, call and responding with Glenn. She thought a film about docenting was a great idea. She said that the character modeled on me in Liza's film "Refuge" had a hot scene with Linda Cardanelli, and I had to think about that. The day flew by, as they do, when you focus intensely. Met Anthony for a pint at the pub, drove slowly home, picking poke in several different spots. Just the young shoots, not yet unfurled, and I treat them like spinach. Chop and cook them in butter with a goodly dash of balsamic. Then scramble them in eggs, with what are probably the last of the morels. Very good. Linda said morels were fetching $60 a pound in the Twin Cities. I've eaten my weight in gold, not bad for a loser on the edge. I get 25% of the show wrapped, good enough, I think, because my schedule is loose right now; rare for me, that I have plenty of time. Which is a good thing, because the next show goes from 2 D to 3 D and everything changes. We go from flat on the walls to objects displayed on pedestals. The lights change, the floor becomes more important, everything covered with vitrines, and fingerprints become an issue. We can make this transition, but there are logistics involved. I don't really like being in charge, but I'll do whatever's necessary to make it look like someone else did whatever it was needed to be done. Though I take care of the floor. my ego is not invested. I actually wonder, fairly often, where the fuck my ego is hiding. Essentially, all I do is write you, and I'm fairly honest, when it comes to the particulars; I don't not say very much. Maybe a little wiggle room, but not much. I am sending a show to Madison, Wisconsin, packing it as we speak, but I might fictionalize some things, make up detail to suit me. I might. On the other hand I might not, because fact would be stranger than fiction. The limits of my imagination. Because we always want to control situations, we'd always like to be with someone just slightly more stupid than we are. So we didn't look so dumb. I'm ready to move into a cave, I hate all this bullshit, it's that mire I'd been warned against. Quicksand, sand-suck. Gerry Jeff Walker, the blues are such a relief.