Not Funny

These god-damn goat suckers at five in the morning are not funny. This one sets-up in the hickory tree closest to the house, 97 repetitions of that shrill three note "song" that might well and truly drive me crazy. I'm pretty good with a rock, I've been throwing them my entire life, and there's a place, where Mackletree Creek flows into Roosevelt Lake, that the flow drops rocks of a perfect size to fit my hand and arm. I keep a lard bucket of these by the back door, use them to roust coons from the compost pile, scatter packs of wild dogs, and attempt to relocate Whip-O-Wills that have gotten too close. Daylight breaking, longest day of the year, a blue-gray light that filters through the darker silhouette of black-leafed trees. I can hear a train, in Kentucky, maybe five miles away, across the river, black birds singing in the dead of night. Not unpleasant, moonlight, a few clouds, but I am a tad lonesome, wondering why I should end up this way, a cold bed, and no one to talk to. Fate, of course, or what passes as fate, you pick your own path without ever making a conscious choice. Can't keep track of where I'm writing, and a great many power outages the last few days, so I lose things. This beginning I wrote at home, Tuesday morning, went to work. Got stuck at the museum last night, by incredible thunder showers, squalls of intense rain and very high winds, with some hail, and lightning that was extremely dramatic, especially striking over in Kentucky. The tallest trees on those lovely limestone bluffs that front the Ohio were taking a beating. In one intense period of time, maybe five minutes, there were 15 or 20 hits. I hadn't meant to, didn't want to stay in town, wanted to get up on the ridge and watch the show. I'd had a wonderful day at the museum, painting the main gallery, and intended to go home and write about white, again. Gallery White specifically, because I see so much of it. It's a soft, tanish white, easy on the eye. I understand white, finally, at this point in my life, and I had made some notes, during a long day of painting white on white. Closed up at five and headed home, got a couple of miles when the deluge hit and my windshield wipers wouldn't work. I pulled over and read for thirty minutes, Steven Havill's latest, "Double Prey" and it's good, he's a fine writer. Headed back to the museum, during a lull. Dark skies, more high winds, I went over to the pub, to drink a pint and wait out whatever the weather might bring. There was another lull, I thought I might get home, but another squall hit, harder than the first. I'd never get up my driveway, and my power is surely fried. I could walk up, with an inverted umbrella, but what's to be gained? I don't feel like suffering the discomfort, grab a footer and fries at the Diary Bar on Second Street and go back to the museum, watch Hulu and run the sump pump in the basement. One time, in Mississippi, I saw it rain like this, had to take the pigs to high ground and the ducks were drowning. Today, the temporal problems, I finally piece together just the last couple of days. It's all so confusing. Just my life, without the added confusion of 'other'. Maybe it's the white on white, maybe there's a cover-up. I think about this while I'm covering up the damage from the last show. I'm base coating the two signage walls today, that is my mandate. Careful taping, ladders and drop-cloths, roller covers and certain brushes, I can do this, it's not really (=)'s a problem. More like a bad date. I get it. I'm completely involved with the pattern and that's not actually the issue. I don't know what the issue is. I just try and stay below the radar, it's a habit, as well as anything else. The color was called, I kid you not, Night Magic, and I had to think about that.