River Fog

Stayed in town to hear young Justin sing and play the guitar at the pub. He does both very well indeed, a great flexible voice and nimble fingers. Up too late to write, then awake just at dawn, out for a walk at 6:30 and go below the floodwall where the fog is so thick (a tube of river fog) that Kentucky is invisible, town is veiled in a layer somewhat thinner but everything is softened and dampish. The world through a scrim. Back at the museum, I go up on the roof, and the sun is shining. Rehearsal for something or other last night, and the back door was broken, though locked, and I fixed that, then painted the ledge above the new green wall the same color. It's semi-gloss, and I can more easily keep it clean. Six tour groups, 5th graders, with art classes, and everyone in the theater, after, for a short concert, so, of course, there were some toilet issues. Janitor is my name, shit is my game. There should be ass-wiping classes in Civics, how to clean yourself without using half a roll of toilet paper. I don't want to teach it, no one does, that's why there aren't any such mandatory classes. Last hour at work I spent in the library with the door closed, Swift reopened the whole modernism thing. Todd Reynolds stopped by the museum yesterday and I asked about his debt to Larry Rivers, he admitted he loved that work and knew the very painting I mentioned. Almost scary, in a way, but makes perfect sense, when you see something. I've been looking at a lot of nudes recently, a little book Julia dropped off for me, Modigliani nudes (I didn't know how to spell his name, same page spread as Moderism in the Random House Second, weird) and I've been looking at 'modern' nudes. Munch's "Madonna" is stunning. Gromaire's "Paulette" and "Nude With Overcoat" are worth your attention. Just looking, here. Thinking about the corporal form and the way it is inhabited. Looking isn't touching (except that it does) anymore than seeing is believing. Ephemeral day, I didn't get much sleep before a dream in which a cat actually rolled me off the sofa. It's why they pay me the big bucks. My bones don't break. What I mean. Sounds like an arrangement inmates at a prison might reach, which is not what I meant, I actually thought we were talking about something else. Goat cheese? Whatever you used to make your curd. I hang on by an imagined thread, a gimbal they give me because I've lived this long, a simple top, almost a compass. No, wait, that's a goddamn Frisbee. All those Upper Classmen always had it in for me, they hated the fake way my mopping pattern was so clean it swept them all away. I'm just saying, we have evidence of that. Argue what you will. This is what we call River Fog. Confusion. Nothing makes any sense. Move your simple cast piece back to Go, a boot, or whatever, a top-hat I remember. Speak the speech I pray you, spoken trippingly.