Existential Garages

Driving in this morning, and someone is building another existential garage. These are generic, rectangles, a window on each side, the garage door, and a person door. They are the most minimal architecture possible. Gable roof with over-hangs. I stopped to look at this new one, going up, block walls, and it really struck me, how plain. Missip delta road houses were the same, only square, and painted garish colors. There's a new intern, a guy, TR, he seems to be OK, we're short-handed and free help could be a good thing. Sara is testing his writing skills, I teach him the fine art of cleaning plexi-glass. Fucking bridesmaid, or whatever it was party, they spilt a half-gallon of sweet tea on the wall and floor of the little gallery. That gallery is painted Cubist Gray, which is the greatest touch-up paint color ever, and there's never been anything that I couldn't cover with two coats. Rich in solids, and thick. But sweet tea is like aniline dye, and when it dries, it becomes a gooey mess, a slow liquid. Like shit from a cow in labor. Not to put too fine a point. All those years on farms and ranches, where I built and worked within these existential barns. I was pretty good at this. I probably could have built barns forever, expanded; franchises, suppliers. But I don't like doing same thing. Six new shows a year is just about the correct amount of imput to keep the vital fluids flowing. Listen, I don't care wether you jump off the garage or not, a parachute or an umbrella, not my concern. I slid down a line anchored to that line you see, the visible one, anchored to a large rock, so I could look at the point of attachment. I'm almost always wrong, so I'd bet against me, if I were you. It's strange, isn't it, that without an indication of any kind, you go right to the heart of the matter. Hey, listen, you don't want to know this bum.