Roaring Outside

A sign of the times. More people bumming cigarets and asking for spare change. I'm always so surprised by that use of 'spare' that I just look stupid and shake my head. There are now three or four people that regularly raid our "Butt Bin" outside the back door. Something woke me, a sound in the night, and I ended up back at my writing station with a short whiskey, rolling a smoke and musing. There's a roaring outside, the wind in stick trees, like a young war in the distance. Hard to keep humidity levels where they need to be when you heat with wood, it's a strain on my books. So preoccupied with Pegi's office I didn't get to the library, to pick up a fiction, to read on my breaks from reading other things. Picture this. I'm sitting at the front desk, clearly a janitor (jeans, denim shirt) filling in for someone better dressed, looking at pictures in an art book, and a couple come in. They're tentative. Born and raised in this town and didn't know there was an art museum. I walked them through the Carter's, glib and slightly profane, they were amused and I was amazed at the way I do this docenting thing. There's no mediation between me and the work, I just say what I think. The stipulation being that I leave out almost everything. I realize I'm bad about getting side-tracked (that's a good looking hyphen), so I get another short drink and roll another cigaret. Kristi said I shouldn't use the word 'fuck' so often, in it's various tenses. So I walk this couple through the Carter's, pointing out a few things, and never use it at all. Fuck a bunch of tattered lavender tights.

Tom

I went on so long the sun finally rose. My early mornings have become confused. Maybe it's just a glitch, but I suspect something more substantial. We'll see how I deal with today: rolling around under the house. There really isn't a referent, maybe a perfectly chipped point, I mistrust everything else.