Whatever Reason

Usually D is completely oblivious to the flirting that goes on around, even if it's directed at him, but he's convinced there's a spark between Marsea and me, which there is, a tangible, quantifiable connection. And the Romantic in me is not quite dead. A woman who breaks her wrist carving a 300 pound block of alabaster is more interesting than most, and I love her body and her hair, and the way she smells, did I mention that? something floral, peonies or lilac, with a trace of musk. The dry-down is fantastic. D said I should quit the museum, move to California, and pursue her with all my wiles. Which I had thought about, before he even mentioned it. But I'm set in my ways, and it's difficult to imagine compromising my time. Arrogant and stupid, but there you have it. Yes, of course I'd rather nestle my head between her breasts, no place I'd rather be, but I have to finish this paragraph first. Which makes me a bad bet, in terms of a relationship, or any boat that might float not being alone. The hours of solitude I require can not be compromised, I just can't do it without hours alone in the woods: tree-tip pit, morels, that funky smell from a backwater. Sorry. I lost myself. What were we talking about? Goddamn Whip-O-Wills. Right. Those Olmec heads. Todd saw the Rembrandt show in Cleveland and thought he'd never paint again, why bother? it had all been done. But it's never all done, drunk as a skunk, five-thirty in the morning, I still see that, it's never all done. I don't even require closure, I just want a couple more hours of sleep. Which I got, and was almost late for work but still the first one there. Three pieces left and one of them requires that I 'build' a box which I do by going to the UPS store and buying their largest double-walled box and taping the flaps upright to increase the depth. This requires a lot of tape, because the box is going on the road. Still not happy about the tape situation. Even the heavy-duty brown packing tape, formerly the bane of our existence (we hated to it on incoming shows) isn't sticking well. Yesterday we resorted to strapping tape, a heretofore unthinkable act. The box worked well. The piece had a handle on top (34 inches tall) and to secure the piece I made a false top, with a slit for the handle, that rests on styrofoam legs I glued into the inside corners and that ties the piece in place. False tops, as we call them, are handy in this business. The other two pieces, one in cast concrete, the other a carved sandstone piece, both weigh close to a hundred pounds, and D and I agreed that they should just be shrink-wrapped in blankets, so that the guy on the other end could actually feel what he was picking up. Three-thirty or so and I'm done, the first step (except for the physical loading) in the impossible schedule. Load the truck tomorrow morning, then clean all my clutter out of the gallery. I need to find/see that couple that seem to make their living off cardboard, selling cardboard as scrap, which maybe grosses $10 a hundred pounds, because I've got a lot of cardboard scraps kicking around, maybe not 100 pounds, but worth ten minutes of their time. A gallon of gas, a cheap six-pack, however they factor their time. I couldn't retreat to my office, because Pegi and Trish were yelling back and forth, and Gretchen was there, Trish's daughter, and one of Pegi's students, and there were several conversations going on, none of which I was interested in. I went to the basement and sorted hardware. Wanted to stay in town, hear Jack Vetter play at the pub, drink Irish whiskey with John, but I remembered I had started writing you, last night or this morning, and I couldn't wait to get back home and see what I'd said.