Docenting

We all, I suspect, have those friends with whom conversation is easy and everything is understood. Glenn is here, from St. Paul, drove through Achilles to get here, and we're going to do a little filming. He wants some footage of mopping, with the character, a kind of me, explaining the different strokes, and a tour through the Carters, where I can talk about framing. In the larger sense. The frame within the frame. And I'm good with that, I pretty much make up the monologue as we go along, catch me in my strong suit and I'm fairly lucid. I can do the Carter's right now, because I've done them a lot recently, and I know too much about them, I have so much original material; and I've lived here now for fifteen years, where he was raised, and I understand the referent. The Ohio River Valley is so beautiful. There might be a spot in the lower Rhone that lives up to this. Glenn got here about ten on Friday morning, we looked at the exhibits and talked about the Docent documentary. Saturday went into work, as I had to set-up for a Sunday event, then did some filming of mopping in the upstairs gallery, left early, to get some groceries. I made tenderloin medallions, mashed potatoes, the sauce. Sunday we failed to find any morels (I found one, and left it to spore), I cooked a rubbed London Broil on the grill, and fixed some roasted baby potatoes. B came over as we were grilling, stayed for supper and conversation. Excellent conversation. Monday we went into the museum, as we had it to ourselves, he set up on the second floor balcony and filmed me mopping the "Modified Chevron" from above, then we tried some things with the Carter paintings. After a dinner of leftovers, we did some audio recording. He brought with him three single Malt scotches, a Laddie Ten, a Glenmorangie, and the most extreme example of a strongly peated single malt I've ever had, an Ardbeg. We three sampled the Ardbeg, but it's a winter drink. Creosote, with overtones of tar; but honestly, after sipping just half a shot, I quite liked it. He also brought three bottles of wine, one of them a Ridge. This is the perfect houseguest. Not to mention that I love him dearly, he's my oldest and best friend. Left this morning, way before dawn, for the fifteen hour drive back to St. Paul. I slept in, until almost eight, got up, heated water, shaved, washed my hair, ate a yogurt, and went to work. Some clean-up and putting away of tables, after the Sunday event; then a large group of high school seniors, art students, and I took them through the print show and through the Carter gallery. I'm so passionate about the work that at first they don't believe it. Then they get that I'm serious. I don't care what they make of that, as long as it makes them think. Glenn pointed out that one of the characteristics of my writing is that I look closely at things, slow down, take the time: it's just a habit I've indulged. The miniature iris are ready to erupt, and the blackberry blossoms; it's going to be beautiful around here for the next few weeks. Cooler nights, and this rain, there should be a good flush of morels. And I'm sorry we couldn't find them when Glenn was here, so much for planning, we ate well anyway. Fuck a bunch of planning. Left work early today, rain moving in, and I just wanted to get back to the ridge, harvest some rainwater, graze among the various left-overs, finish a bottle of wine. Fact probably defeats fiction late in the fourth quarter. When whatever his name is goes up for a shot and misses. I don't care who wins or loses. I'm not attached, as they say, to one thing or the other.