Something

I have to go to bed, but some thoughts first. Zack, the percussionist for the Emily Project, gets in tomorrow, to set-up the sound stage, and Linda on Friday. Whenever TR and I bump into each other, one of us has something to say about the project. I'm fully engaged. First open the Portrait Show. I've got to go sleep, my dogs are weary. Learning to go up and down the driveway in the Jeep, it's not the same. Chaos at the museum, the electrician and the electrical inspector; Kevin and Patrick, working to fine tune the elevator and get ready for inspection, Terry, the board member who has agreed to oversee the facility upgrades. We still have to get the signage on two walls and hang three pieces, D has three lights to adjust, I have to touch-up the three pedestal tops, there is a plethora of shit in the gallery, and the back hall is a disaster area. I also managed to clean and stock the bathrooms. We got it all done, it's what we do, getting it done. The opening, with Mark talking about his process, was interesting, I ate enough finger-food to qualify for dinner, the strawberries were succulent. God should have eaten these, he would have made comfort easier to find; if I'm allowed to say anything, and I don't have any prepared statement. Here's the key: identify the threat, protect your physical involvement in a situation. And eat. Fuck me and a grain of sand. Loose canons scare me to death. I turn down a free dinner at a decent restaurant because I want to get home before dark and start a small fire in the cookstove, settle back with a drink and a smoke in a dark house, and consider. A place of relative comfort, where I hang my hat. I project myself down the pike. It's just a way of doing business, flipping a coin for service. Noir cut to a back alley where one thing is exchanged for another. How do you feel about dying? Are you comfortable with the fact that you're finite? Emily always was.