Of Course

Whatever you imagine is true. It's the heart of fiction. Context is an issue, what seems to be being said, but mostly, it's what you see that you believe, a deer in the headlights. An artful dodge is what you imagine something not true that you fabricate out of whole cloth. Not unlike a dream or a waking fantasy. In even an almost completely normal day, some things will strike you as odd, something someone says or the way a person looks, a particular bend of hip that reminds you of that time, where was it? Cape Cod? Martha's Vineyard? when you realized there was knowledge in your fingertips that your mind didn't bother to process. Like rolling a cigaret. Mindless. But at the same time mindful. When a task has become so rote that thinking isn't an issue. Increasingly, as I grow older, I don't care about most things. Mid-western Zen, I try to live in the moment, a western-eastern moment. Ivy league with a goodly shot of Irish whiskey. A meditative state or merely almost drunk, I don't care which, that allows a different level of thought. I think about this, how easily I allow myself to slide among vantages. It's probably all those drugs I took when I was younger and knew I would live forever. Another iconic myth. Being indestructible. Of course there are limits, I can never be you and you can never, actually, be me. I hear Glenn, in the background, he's already destroyed 'real' and 'actually' is on the slab. A kind of Hemingway short story, composed completely of nouns and verbs, but our narrator, the docent, waffles, he needs more words. Some long shots, some music over, Barnhart composes some percussive discussion. Everything is difficult, if you're really trying to do a good job, cut to Kim carving scales on a fish spoon, but nothing is impossible. Like I said the other night, nothing is beyond the pale. Wait, what does that mean? Palisades. Cut to cotton candy. Pink, like a dream, something you can't imagine. Pegi, my boss, showed me her toenails, embedded glitter, and I reminded her that I was strongly anti-glitter, conservative, in point of fact, and that I didn't care how flexible her young girls were, that eventually, we'd have to talk. A goat-sucker sets up in the hickory close to the house. I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy. Second day and we get the show set, everything in its place, and start installing. Because of the events, many of the 3D pieces will need to be secured with Museum Wax, all the bonnets need to be cleaned with alcohol, a little touch-up painting, lighting and labels. Great working with Sara and D. If we can get everything hung and lit tomorrow (give that a maybe) then get the labels made on Tuesday, we'd have Wednesday, during the day, to put out any small fires. I probably need to go in Saturday and paint, need to do a load of laundry anyway, get supplies for the holiday. Talking about cooking with D today (we often talk about cooking), I'd like to do some beef short-ribs, but they're so damned expensive. My plan was to cook Sunday and drink Monday. I'll let the Manager's Specials dictate the menu. London Broil or pork tenderloin or beef ribs, mashed potatoes, a stir-fry. I'm not comfortable with two big events when both the main galleries are filled with 3D pieces. Way too many things that are delicate, I've voiced my concern, as has D, and now Sara. I'll certainly be there, for the fund-raiser, I promised Alma I'd be there for her 100th, and thought I'd be there for the wedding, but the wedding falls on my birthday. I have a habit of being alone on my birthday, drinking a good Zin, making a nice meal, reading a book I'd bought myself as a present. This year I ordered a copy of Samuel Beckett's book on Proust. I think I'll miss the wedding. Whatever happens happens, there's nothing I can do to prevent it. I'm better off cooking something and remembering, than I am running interference at a wedding reception, fuck a bunch of bridesmaids. Wait, on second thought. Could be a great chance to hook up with someone who would be appalled by the way I live and demand a ride home. Who could resist that? The crux, at my place, is when someone first asks where do they pee, and I tell them "outside". Pretty much establishes how the evening is going to go. All men all cool with this, but only some women. Go figure. All the women I'm comfortable with are ok with pissing outside. Which either says something about me, or about them.