What Happens

What goes around, not unlike what comes to pass. Where you end up. With whom. I have a long history of enabling people to move on. Charlotte said she had lived with both dogs and cats and she preferred neither. My history with animals is hardly better than my history with people. An attractive person requires attention, so, too, a Maine Coon Cat, or a Golden Retriever. Must be right at the dew-point, because it isn't raining, but water is dripping off the roof. My belief system is based primarily on drainage. What happens if you spend time with Glenn. Essentially a drainage guy. I mean, there are two types of people, right? Those that see it, and those that don't. I start a work-day morning, dawn, no pets to feed and water, no livestock, no chickens; make a coffee, check to see if I had left a note about something I needed to do; and since my house is the highest in the county, everything is downhill. Mackletree Creek flows down (a lovely thing) into Roosevelt Lake, overflowing as Turkey Creek, into the Ohio at Friendship. Pastoral, except when big rains or snow melt floods the bottom, but it drains quickly. I drive down to town, toss my derby on a hat-tree, set to. I don't pretend to know anything. Punch the clock, mop the floor. Fucking Whip-O-Wills are back, one right in my face, you know how I feel about them; sling-shot wizard, I put an end to that. Mad Tom. A major breakfast is in order. Bacon, of course, because it make the house smell so good, and I steam some baby potatoes which I break up and fry as a patty, topped with a perfect fried egg; toast, and a bitter jam. Most of the morning prepping the main gallery, then painting most of the afternoon. Tomorrow I bring up all the pedestals. I spent over an hour today cleaning up the mess from the failed plastic bottom of a paint can. Whoever thought that was a good idea? Mark and Charlotte and I were exhausted by the end of the day. There's so much to do and we're so short-handed. Situation like this, you put on blinders and plow ahead. The classic line is "never have so few done so much for so few" which generated in the Opera shop in Boston. We did some great things, several of which were impossible; impossible was really our strong suit, we did impossible as a matter of course. A 24 foot statue of Athena, is not a problem. What style do you want it in? If I could just disentangle my feet from the various cords. As you get older, tripping becomes a problem. Big moon coming, next Sunday, I can see it already, between the trees. Must be the closest pass this year. Late night phone call, and I'm thinking it must be bad news, but it's a lady friend from my past, Dina, in Chicago. Teaches art at an inner-city school, and just today found me on line. I don't do any social media stuff, I don't have a cell phone (in the middle of a 64,000 acre forest, I don't get any reception) but Glenn keeps me current; and Dina was amazed that there I was, in video and text, nominally the same person. She had been reading Whitehead; and suddenly it's Tom, hanging color-field paintings at an art museum in southern Ohio. I know that guy. There's a pub there, they have Murphy on tap. Yes, yes, it's all coming back to me; the only surprise is he's still alive. He survives by dint of listening closely and watching the ground in front of his two feet. It's not a cake-walk, speaking for myself, but I like the reconnection. It's instructive to remember.