Like, Then

Pretty sure I'd get a rise from Sara about that. I was talking with someone yesterday about what constitutes art, whether or not the word itself carried any weight. I don't pretend to know. The wind is tearing some new ground right now, I have to kill the breaker for the fridge. It's new-age Bach, a touch of Cage: a prepared organ, and a raving maniac. Fortunately it's not very cold, and I can listen with a certain dispatch. Maybe quilts are different, because they serve a functional need. But I rest my case on the learning curve issue, lightning or not. The fox was at my compost heap, I can see her tracks clearly, she seems to favor egg dishes and cooked cranberries. Go figure. I'll not lose my head over a fox ever again. I like living alone, not compromising my time. Foxes require attention. The wind is like a voice from the past. Nothing you can fix, just another broken neck, and something you have to hear over and over. When it's really quiet, I hear the rafters adjusting. Another beautiful day, 55 degrees (25 high on Wednesday), and later the waxing moon, close to full, in a clear sky. Finished packing up the paintings for Fed Ex freight. We didn't like the crate two paintings came in from Reno Nevada. We rebuilt it. Done. A world of patch and repair to be done, then three or four weeks of painting. Fun working with both D and TR, we can do Three Stooges routines. I need to go in for half-a-day tomorrow, then half-a-day on Monday to take delivery on most of the next show and ship out the bulk of Wet Paint. We have to unpack the Folk Art show because D has to photograph everything for the catalog. I sense some awkwardness, but maybe not, we can probably just glom everything together in the center of the main gallery. The ladies almost got to me today, Trisha and Pegi; they kept asking questions about the Folk Art show that are not answerable yet, because the show doesn't exist. I can't tell you how many panels or pedestals are going to be in play, and I certainly can't project the configuration. Cardboard smells nice, a hint of old books. My calves were a little sore, standing on the tile floor is tough enough, but then I remembered I'd been walking in, carrying a pack; and I'm surprised I'm not more impacted by the dramatic change in routine. Walking in is a whole lot different from driving in. Not just the hike, which is cool enough, but something I mentioned last year, the mediation the hike provides, between the inside and the outside. The museum is public, the ridge is incredibly private. This time of year, the people who would show up at my door are (is) a severely limited list. Only those willing to use a room temperature toilet seat and take the hike are allowed.