Not Quite a Rain

A heavy fog, where drops of water condense from a super-charged atmosphere. Not unlike living in an aquarium, or some closed system in which nothing is lost. Well, something is, always, entropy, the Second Law of Thermodynamics, Maxwell's secret hammer, or just bad weather; relative humidity, whatever, an actual number, that could be graphed. I'm OK I think, can get to work tomorrow, though the trip down the driveway will be memorable. Wet leaves, like goose shit, are the bane of my existence. I have a tool, a 'drift' I use for starting holes when I want to be very precise. It's a simple tool, sharpened to a point on one end, blunt on the other, for striking with a mallet. It's steel, which is just processed iron, and very sharp. These numbers, trying to be perfect, are never exact; what, exactly, is three-fifths of an inch? I tell TR to try five-eights. I try not to deal with sixteenths. Not that I can't, but that they really don't matter and I shouldn't waste my time. There it is again, fucking time, that you should invest, or otherwise use. When I strike this tool with my favorite hammer, a 16 once Estwing that I love, there's a harmonic that Dopplers into play. You can't not hear it. It sustains, like that argument you had with your mate earlier. It's always red-shift, moving away, a siren in the night. The driveway isn't bad, dried overnight, so I'm early and stop at the lake, roll a smoke and watch the heat escaping from the water. There's an apparent regularity to the spacing of the wisps, but if there is, there's some principle at play that I don't understand. Perplexed, I drive on into town, slowly, enjoying the color down by the river. It's nice, I got stuck behind a tractor, and he kept waving at me to pass, but I was perfectly fine going 15 MPH. American Zen. I get to the museum, D arrives, we go get coffee, explaining to the new girl that we get coffee for free, because we're grandfathered-in. Exhausting, but D and I can hang so quickly that he and Sara are lighting by day's end. Incredible, but because TR and I worked Monday we seem to be a day ahead. That could well disappear. I won't be completely comfortable until after the fund-raiser. Linda comes in tomorrow, to work on the Emily Project, we'll be tied up with TR on Sunday and Monday, Sara and Clay want to wine and dine us, which is cool, I love to be wined and dined; and we can just talk about the project, what we want to do, what we're capable of, what resources might be at hand. I had brought out a board-room chair for Sara, so she could wheel around, and she does, and I can tell she's getting antsy to throw some light on the scene. The gallery is a shambles, piles of stuff everywhere. The head, and others, from the art program at the college come over, they're blown away by the show, and it's not even lit yet. TR walks them through. He's dapper, that hair and all, the link we've needed.