Home Again

Had just mentioned to Sara that we hadn't seen the sun in a week, then, on the way home, a few shafts, before the gray settled in again. Another and final exhausting day for this turnaround. Done, except for a couple of little things that need doing before the talk tomorrow. I touched-up the pedestal tops just before closing today, but the paint has to be good and dry before the bonnet goes on or you'll rock the boat and break something getting the damned thing off. One of Juliellen's dolls D had left for me to hang on the entry wall, but the size of the hole and the shape of the back and the thickness of the clay all conspired to defy any of the usual ten of twelve pieces of hardware we might normally use. Finally, end of the day, bent an "L" hook into a configuration that will work, take me five minutes tomorrow. We had cantilevered two puppet dolls off the front wall, using some heavy duty plywood so that we could get solid attachment and the edges needed painting. Tricky, now that dolls were under them. I couldn't get a sheet over them, as a drop cloth, because of all the cables, so I finally draped them in paper towel. It's an imperfect world. The plywood needed to have been pre-painted, but we were hanging, right then, and couldn't wait for something to dry. Leo helped with some things today, setting a few bonnets. He's a good helper, strong and silent. Now I need to know, I was thinking today, how smart he is, to see how far I can trust him. Installing shows is tricky. I have to read back over the post I wrote about repairing the doll. Linda thought it was a comedy routine. I'm flattered, but I don't actually remember what I wrote. I get rusty, when I miss a night writing, lose facility. When I was writing the cistern book, 120 nights, I didn't miss a session, if I had I would have lost my place. The windows are open, I have to wear a sweatshirt for the first time this season; though only the most threadbare, stretched horribly out of shape sweatshirt I own. I have three, I think; next time I get a drink, I'll go look. People give me clothes and I give clothes away, things don't fit, babies grow up fast, Goodwill, all that; but I keep a finite wardrobe, five feet of hanger, and two shelves. A simple system. Too simple, in point of fact, because I'm willing to bare, bear, oops, not sure which. OK. It's good to be home. I love the confusion. My hands don't shake when they pour a drink when I'm by myself. Question. If you don't need some sign of affection, some exterior sign of modality, this would all be easier, but where do we find ourselves? The sassafras is already turning color, yellow and copper, the driveway is a gauntlet of color right now, and overhung with rain sodden canes. Who'd bother to make this up? Talking with Linda always makes me think in terms of how we might work together. When she called tonight, and we talked about the possible Emily show. We also talked about glazing a pork roast in chutney juice. We see eye to eye. In so far as, whatever. Talk about music, and I suddenly start thinking about TR composing some minimalist music that might feather. Something to keep in mind, how overlaid the video stuff could happen. Emily channeled through the janitor is a thought. Or the last time you completely stopped and listened. Doesn't matter where you are, what you say you are.