Rainy Sunday

Needed the day off, so the rain was a pleasant patter on the roof. Of course I meant Tom Roth, as Aralee pointed out, and, oddly, "The Legend of 1900" is one of the few movies I've seen in forever, and I did like it, very much. Being amorous toward fence-posts involves knotholes, a phrase I first heard in Mississippi. Missed my grader ditch rendezvous with B because I got up early and wrote, then went back to sleep. Went down solo and dug for a while. The driveway is actually in good shape. Back home, when the daily rains started again, I finished the new Sandford novel, then read a long and difficult essay on Wittgenstein and James Joyce by Thomas Singer about the limits of language. By mid-afternoon I was hungry again, and wanted a big meal, so I caramelized and onion and red pepper, cut up a pound of asparagus, held out the tips to add at the last minute, made mashed potatoes, and seared several medallions of pork tenderloin. The horseradish jam was great on the meat. People send me interesting condiments. The menu for Neil's visit will depend on the weather, but I'll have some variation on this meal. It's so good, with a silky mouth-feel and wonderful lingering tastes. Read D's Thesis Proposal, which is to examine the idea of BOOK as both the container and the contained. I imagine some heated discussions, as I have strong notions about what constitutes a book, I'm made more of them, by hand, than anyone I know. I'm not offended by strange, but I am by meaningless. I need to derive something from a book, not just see it as an object. But I've been in the art business my entire life, and I'm willing to see something another way. You just have to convince me. When I first encountered book as object, 40 years ago, I was actually offended. Now I can look at one and not shudder, at least study the binding, act interested. And I've published my share of oddities. But I love reading actual books. Prone on the sofa, with an opened book on my chest, is one of my favorite positions. I walked in yesterday, then took a small walk today, in a lull, and when I stripped for the weekly bath, checking with a mirror, not a single tick. First time in weeks. I can't accomplish, in the next few days, what needs doing, so I'm going to have to call Pegi at home tomorrow, and tell her we need help. I never call her at home except to ask about the weather. I can finish installing the sculpture show, but I need all day Tuesday, and Tuesday is the day we need to set for Wednesday, which is an all day event. We need somebody to set up tables and chairs, I just don't have the time. The sculpture show is beautiful, and I want to spend some time on it. I want it to look right. We're a museum, correct? this is what we're supposed to do, display art. I bristle at anything that threatens that. Meeting Shane and Tami, yesterday and the day before, I showed them the Carter nudes, and she teaches drawing, and when I engaged Shane about how he physically created the pieces, his names for them, something went off in my brain, about naming, and how that tied into the whole conversation about what names were. You need to call something by name. It's like a rule or something. Maybe there's a pattern on the floor, or a game-board. A map you need to negotiate. I'm just saying, look around. Consider cave drawings.

Tom

Rainy Sunday, right?