Return

Sara had asked me what you called it when you brought paint around the edge of a wall surface. It's called a 'return' and I had lost the word. I found it the very next day, when I was looking at the specific place we had been talking about. One returns the edge. Linda returned my call. I see a thread here. Always great to talk to her, then Glenn got on the phone, arranging a visit in a couple of weeks. Probably going to start filming his next project, with me as "The Docent", talking about the Carters and whatever else takes our fancy. I imagine a serious take on The Janitor, mopping his Modified Chevron and rapping about the Renaissance, the history of printing (one of my favorite subjects), and whether or not we'll find enough morels for another omelet. There'll be the usual nod to drainage. Glenn always manages to tie that knot. Any given place, water or ideas, flowing downhill. Desire paths, the path of least resistance, reading sign on the driveway. Someone tried to drive in recently and didn't make it, I could tell from the scrapes where the transfer case bottomed-out. Either one of B's students or someone looking to rob me. They didn't make it. The ruts defeated them. The ruts, drainage, there you go. I could docent the driveway. Docent the drive in, the long way around, cleaning the wheel-wells at the ford, and admiring the wild rhododendron breaking bud. Usually, when I drive in this way, I've thrown time to the wind. I might stop, in the middle of the ford, scramble onto the hood, roll a smoke, sit very still until the birds come out and watch the sun set. Not like I have to be anyplace in particular. When you live alone, certain restraints are lifted, you flit like a butterfly, stop, more often, to watch insignificant events. The frightful behavior of squirrels, the way a back-water forms, red maple buds in the spring. I don't pretend to know, but the overriding evidence is that something is going on. D really hit the ground running today, a mission statement; he took apart the common room, cleaned it, reorganized everything, got rid of some things. We re-hung the most valuable painting at the museum, Carter's "Let Us Give Thanks" ($250,000), then, while we had TR, hung new lights tracks. Required three of us to keep them secure at the joints, mark for the anchors, take it down, set the anchors, then get the unit screwed up into place. Working over your head is always a pain in the ass. I put some things away, then made a list for tomorrow, because the large, juried, Best Of, high school art show comes in on Friday. After that we have to tackle cleaning the theater. Sharee (she's coordinator for all the art teachers in the county) always makes sure the pieces are rigged for hanging, so it's just a matter of setting the pieces. D and I will do that in an afternoon, with a few changes the next morning. There are always a few changes, you sleep on the arrangement, then tweak it the following morning. Most people that do this kind of work, have their best ideas in the morning. By four you're brain dead and incapable of making reasonable decisions. When we were working four ten-hour days in Telluride, we'd schedule dumb work for the last couple of hours every day. I've watched some very good carpenters screw up two or three pieces of trim, trying to get a window cased before quitting time. I have to do some shopping, I hate shopping, but I need a pair of jeans, a new denim shirt, a packet of boxer briefs, and a new pair of shoes. I want wide Clark Desert Boots, I need for my feet to be comfortable again, and I'm willing to spend some money on that. Creature comforts are become important. I require clean socks.