Buried Cables

Yesterday, because of a snow and slush storm, I was the only staff at the museum. The subs showed up and the underground utility guy. I spent most of the day wandering around, answering questions. I called my electric company and they said my meter was dead, therefore my electricity was out, so I spent one more night in town. Then this morning things got very busy: the Heating and Air guys (two vans and a truck), and the crane arrived, for removing the old A/C unit from the roof and setting the new one up there; the alley crew, in force, to try and form up the last of the window wells for pouring concrete; the City Engineer; the foreman of the alley crew. At one point there was a dump truck at the back door, being loaded by a small front-end loader, a monster compressor at the other end of the alley, powering a jack-hammer (that ran most of the day), the crane, three guys using hammer-drills in the basement, and one of the A/C guys in the back hall hammering duct-work. D called in that he had re-injured his back and wouldn't be in. I went to lunch and the pub was packed beyond capacity because the road company for "A Chorus Line", playing tonight at the University theater, were all having lunch. The staff had saved a seat at the bar for me, and I just ordered a bowl of stew, so I could eat and get out quickly. Days of chaos and I was tapped out. Got back from lunch and discover that's there's a fucking event in the main gallery on Saturday and the crew to set up for that will be in at noon tomorrow. It wasn't on the calendar and no one had told me. The main gallery is a war zone. I spent the afternoon, cleaning, going to the dumpster, and swearing under my breath. I'd told Pegi I was going home at four today, so I could start a fire, and I did leave at four; fuck a bunch of non-communication. Twice, during the remodel, they've done this, forced me to stop what I was doing, clean the jobsite (and there's a difference between a clean jobsite and the space for a museum event), and pretend it's no big deal. On it's most basic level, the world, where you interact, is theater. Fortunately, Philip, 'Estragon' from the "Waiting For Gogot" I directed at the university 10 years ago, visiting to see some friends, found me in the alley. I hadn't him seen in all that time, but we picked right back up, as if a decade hadn't passed. He's a natural talent, the best cold reader of text I've ever met, we talked about doing some Beckett. He has a voice, something about the cadence; and I suspect, if he moves back to this area of the country, we'll probably do something together. We both love Beckett. Going home, there are these lavender clouds, and under the snow, there's a hint of green; I think I probably won't die this winter. You put it all together, a cold night you survived in pajamas, the hours you spent in a snow cave, it all results in you, somehow you surviving. Mostly, I don't give a shit, operating in that realm where fact meets fiction. Sven's brother could either or not respond. As long as we're clear on that.