Idle Day

Rain all night, all morning, and into the afternoon. Astounding, the amount of moisture that falls on this watershed. Enjoyed the Thomas Perry novel, "The Informant", but after a big meal, about 2:00, I turned to "An Anthology of Aesthetic Theory" and read some very difficult essays by Foucault and Derrida, then finished the reading part of my day by rereading what is a pivotal text, Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technical Reproducibility". Nice to have the leisure to pursue several threads. I think about installing the ODC show. Prepared pretty well, almost ahead of the game. One problem will be running out of pedestals and bonnets: all the jewelry and small items have to be covered. Most of the painting is done. Pegi has enlisted aid, for the two large events that happen within four days right at the opening of the show. We've actually opening the show opening three days early, to catch the first event, which should be a significant fund-raiser. I don't involve myself, much, in these things, other than setting up tables and chairs; but I'll be at both of these events, talking with board members and patrons. Not exactly my stratification, but I can hold my own at just about any level, and it's not a stretch for me to talk about opera or theater, or the Cello Suites, clamping techniques and modern glues, quantum mechanics, or social theory generally. Opinions are cheap, not unlike sweet onions, which are now sold individually, like baking potatoes, I can't believe it. I buy tomatoes, now, at the farmers's market, the last time I grew them, it only made the deer happy. You make something out of nothing, holed up somewhere, based in an overlook or cave, maybe a tree-tip pit. You're feeling good about things, because you killed something large yesterday, and you're roasting parts of it today, idle time, because your belly is full and the next meal is on the spit. You wander back, into a difficult recess, you have the advantage of time, and a mouthful of some pigment. You're holding a torch of some kind, fatwood, or an oil you've extracted. You find a place to put your hand and spit an outline. Your hand, your cave; not unlike pissing on the compost pile. Yes, it says, I've been here too, killed something, ate well. I slip so easily into that world, where what you eat is what you are. I'd rather just go to sleep, but that isn't an option. I have birds to deal with, a train in Kentucky. That train in Kentucky is just an idea, a blues note, the birds are actually in my face, goddamn three note signature. I have to go, squall moving through, consider your last decision. Did you really mean what you said? I'd better go.