Not Nothing

It's maddening, that I can write but not send. Still no phone. It could be out for weeks. On my way in I see where a giant poplar has crashed down and shredded the line to a tangle of colored filaments, a maze of dead connections. A perfect example of lost communication. Out here, at the end of the line, we're used to silence, expect nothing and you're seldom disappointed. Sitting at the bar, talking with the owner, I'm struck with how strange it is, to be grounded thus. Not that it's strange, to be talking to a particular person, but that I find myself here. Dolls. What's that about? Wake up on my pallet in the office at the museum, first light, go downstairs and shave, wash off with actual hot running water, which is a treat for me; microwave some of yesterday's coffee (I'm not picky about coffee), when Pegi arrives, early, she has a another treat for me, a pumpkin donut, so I don't have to go out for a scone. The residency person was also early, the brother this time, the industrial designer. He's cool, we chat, I open up his spaces for him, turn on lights, get him a projector; let the new group of kids inside and goof with their teacher, a person I know and ask after her mother, who is another person I know, and the kids find it interesting that someone can banter with their teacher. I'm an asset as a janitor, there's no question about it. After lunch Sara and I decide (mostly Sara) which three of the Carter's to take in for framing. We're going to frame them all, uniformly, so we can do an exhibit. I salivate at this. This could be a great show, I start thinking about other Carter nudes, that I know about, and I don't know that many, but this engages my attention. We're having six things framed, three for the fund-raiser auction and three for the potential show. "Thirteen Nudes and A Catfish", which I think is a great title, for the first small Carter show of drawings, but I see a big show here, that could be done. Next thing you know Glenn will be requesting that I don't use the word 'that' so often. He's a stern teacher, I lost 'really' recently and now I have to give up 'that', when I know the transmission is secured. This writing into the void is a piece of shit. I love being home, there is no doubt. I operate well from 'that' position. I have to stop and wonder what I was about to say. A thing for me, heaven forbid. Maybe someone could prepare a better London Broil, but I doubt it. It's my signature meal. We don't have to talk about how difficult it is for me to talk about you. I got a wake up call, sometime early this morning. Someone was concerned. I don't even remember where I was, we were talking about authentic fleece, and what the hell it meant, what the hell is authentic anyway? Music might carry you along, certain lines of text, but we were talking about fabric, a simple weave, and I misunderstood, as I usually do, and the question missed me completely. What were we talking about? I forget. The high point of the day was taking some things to the framing shop with Sara. First time I'd done this with her. We know the people there very well and can poke around behind the counter, make small talk and jokes about ice-cream cones with our framer's parents, who own the business and the building, Front Street, just behind the flood wall, a historic (minor, regional) place actually, Julia Marlowe's house, and Daddy, also Tom, is adding a residence for he and his wife. We get the grand tour. It's so cool. We get the special tour. I'm so engaged by the whole docenting thing, showing someone around, that I practically swoon. Tom has grafted on the space he needs, for modern convenience, to these old brick buildings, and made it seem original. Germane, considering the word 'authentic'. I'm just along because I carry white gloves and I'm the one that handles the nude drawings. A default position, but there you are. We find ourselves, at some point, examining window casings, and they are beautiful, a twelve step method of creating the perfect frame for what you see. I'm blown away. Beauty is where you find it. Not unlike that moment in the bar last night, when Megan glanced over, saw me and smiled. We all have moments like that, when everything pales, and we stumble or trip on a curb, maybe we catch our self or maybe we fall. It is fall now, and I'm already worried about winter. The first cold front of the season, and when I get home, I'll have to get back to the framing, because it is a central issue, I have no electricity AND no phone. Fucking end of the line is driving me crazy, Stand at the island, in the glomming, and roll a smoke. I consider just going back to town, getting a drink at the pub, and crashing at the museum. But I want to sleep in my own bed, toke and talk to myself, internal dialog, and decide I'll wait an estimated hour (I don't have a timepiece) because my experience (is that authentic?) is that if they don't restore power within a hour something is seriously wrong. I get a drink, what the hell, roll another smoke. breaking dawn here. A strange back light that casts everything into question.