Explaining Yourself

Jogging memory is a dubious course, so many things you don't want to remember, personal failures and social mistakes. You recall an event and cringe at your clumsy attempt to impress some other person. I noticed, toward the end of this installation, when D, Sara, and I would go out for a smoke, slumped on the loading dock, weary, foot-sore, and mentally depleted, we'd just talk about something else, modern art is a large field; but what you see here, this show, is a product of our labor. I can't believe we did it, the hurdles were impossibly high. At a certain point, you have to ask yourself if you want to keep doing whatever it is, watching tadpoles, flirting with a fox, trying to find a place where you fit in. This introduction prescribed by those fucking birds. I wish I lived in a missile silo. Where I could keep sound at a bearable level. But you get one of those goat-suckers close to the window where you sleep, and the game is called. I advise retreat, I usually do. Better you should collect a ring of rocks and start a camp-fire, than that we should ever conspire. It's often just language that separates us. I only talk the way I do because of the voices in my head. Period, space, pillow, sleep, well and truly wasted. Got to work early because the punch-list was still fairly long. Finished everything: setting up tables and chairs, the signage, bonnets on the pedestals, the galleries emptied of detritus. The food and booze crew arrived, board members and spouses with a couple of hired hands, and I was the designated taster. The food was very good, the chicken salad in half of a little puff pastry was fantastic, many people liked the pate especially. It was a great party, I drank sparingly and socialized more than in forever. I knew so many of the people. Great conversations. Some excellent ankles on view. Marsea was there, with our patron Alma, who is 100 years old and still gets around, and we managed to steal a few moments to hold each other around the waist and transmit finger talk through the fabric. I couldn't move to San Francisco, but I could afford to fly her here once a month. Fuck, I'm a loner, I'm not sure I could be with another person even one day a month.