Too Much

Most packs of feral dogs are predominately black labs, with a few beagle crosses. The beagles tend to be vocal. A pain in the ass when they 'tree' a coon on my back porch, and she's scratching at the metal door. A female coon is rounder, the males are long and lean. I flip on the porch light, 3:30 in the morning, and it's a sea of red eyes, like something from a Stephen King novel. I open the door a couple of inches, then slam it shut, and the coon scampers off into the blackberry canes, the dogs go ape-shit, but I run them off with my sling-shot and a few well-placed marbles. Just part of the routine. There's an unopened bottle of Irish whiskey, another Redbreast that Howard had brought, so I break the seal and pour a wee dram, roll a smoke. So much excitement. Calming down, I don't know what to make of myself. I could be somewhere else, where packs of dogs didn't interrupt your sleep, but I can't imagine where that might be. Missed my chance, probably, not moving into that family coal mine in Colorado; it was cool, but I'm claustrophobic, and for all of it's obsidian beauty, I could never live in a cave. Under an overhang, maybe. There was one place, an Anasazi dwelling, southern Utah, Kate told me how to get there. A long hike in, but the place was a castle. Easily defendable, the only approach was a set of hand-holds, carved in the rock, and you could set at the top and knock off anyone you didn't want to see. The overhang was huge, like a Boeing hanger. Grain bins, sleeping nooks, and a common area with a fire pit. All the walls were adobe blocks. The granary was still full of corn, cobs mostly, the kernels fallen prey to various rodents. It's old, you can feel that; start a fire in the ancient pit, unroll your pad. Open a bottle of Old Vines Zin. You can weave a grill of green willow, on the creek bank, to cook a couple of trout, and look at more stars than you thought possible. I went there often, when I was waiting for the divorce to be finalized, the quietest place I've ever been, and I am a student of quiet. Staff meeting today, and that was good, get everyone on the same page. After lunch, Charlotte, TR and I attacked the projection booth at the back of the theater. Concrete dust everywhere, so we took everything out, and while TR and I cleaned those things C vacuumed. Much improved. The theater is now ready for the art camp kids. It was at the top of my list. Now I need to paint for a few days, get all the pedestals up from the basement, paint those, sort hardware and reorganize the tool room. The Ohio Designer Craftsmen show is a major installation, and It's going to have a big opening: meet the new directors, finger food, decent wine, so the place needs to look good. As I said to Mark at the staff meeting, I have way too much on my plate, so I need for him and Charlotte to prioritize my tasks. Everyone, I've found, has their own sense of priorities. If I'm working for someone else, I tend to follow their list, unless it's clearly out of line. I've only ever quit a couple of jobs, and in both cases the owner was a complete idiot. Whom I do not suffer willingly. Mac is off to Yellowstone, Charlotte is a bundle of energy, TR has to go change shoes, because we're clearly in the middle of it. I just roll a smoke and go outside. Yep, as I might have said, one thing might be viewed as another. The twins, switched at birth, that whole scene unfolds, Janus, looking both ways.