Buffer Zone

I took a nap, because I wanted to get back up to listen to the radio, Dwayne Allman's daughter with her Dad's archive. His guitar playing was a transport of joy. He played lead on Boz Scagg's first album and it's incredible. That was Thursday night, and I was exhausted, couple of drinks and crashed, then yesterday, which the three of us knew needed to be a very production day. I spent 90 minutes hauling boxes to the basement, then, before lunch, C tells me that the wall art (mostly fabric art) was where it needed to be, and I could start hanging. Hanging fabric art is difficult, because the pieces are never exactly square or straight. There are 28 pieces for the walls, and while I start on those both M and C work on the 3D pieces that will fill every pedestal in the building (two dozen of them, ranging in size up to the very large), and we're all incredibly busy right up until quitting time. It's a huge show. By the end of the day I'd hung 15 pieces, was talking to myself and whimpering. We were all three brain-dead, but when we were leaving we all knew that we were in good shape, that there was still a lot to be done, but that there were several days in which to accomplish it. I stopped at the pub for a pint, and John T said that I looked as if I had worked myself into a coma. When I got home the power was out, no AC, no writing (it's become difficult for me to write longhand), no heating dinner, and no way to heat water for cleaning up. I sponged off, with tepid rain, ate a can of tuna with hot sauce, and read by the light of two oil lamps, until my eyes got tired. I felt pretty good actually, that I was still able to stay in the game. And I love this part of it, closing in on the opening, opening time and opening date set maybe two years ago, and all the publicity was mailed weeks ago, and it will all come down to a five-O-clock on a Friday afternoon, July 12th. Not quite cast in iron, but close. I've been lucky my entire life to work with people that were good at what they did. Sets the bar a bit higher, which is a good thing, in a world of increasing distraction. I can see how people would want to deny that they have a life. It's the system come to bear. You plug in the Mac-And-Cheese, add an aromatic, this is the way universes are created. I don't care one way or the other (that's not fair, I do care) but I require a certain buffer zone between me and the outside world. I went in this morning to re-hang two pieces, M and C had both said not to bother, but I actually wanted both of them closer to perfect. And no one bothered me all day. Beat a line of thunderstorms back to the ridge, give me a medal, I watch the weather channel, and right on cue, a squall-line moved through, raining about as strong as it's possible to rain, an inch in half-an-hour; sheets, an opaque curtain. I imagine this much rain, on saturated ground, will flood all the bottoms, but I can sit tight tomorrow, and this land drains quickly. The other reason I went to town, my larder was low, and I had a hankering for a few things. I wanted an avocado, a small strip steak, a baked potato; and a box of dried cod from which I could make codfish cakes as God intended. I flush the salted cod in three or four changes of water, over a twenty-four hour period, then poach in white wine, with rosemary, salt and black pepper. Caramelize a couple of shallots, add a couple of those left over baby baked potatoes, mash it all up with some fresh herbs. I dredge these in a highly seasoned corn meal. I get the corn meal from the Logan Turnpike Mill, Blairsville Ga., and it's the best I've ever had. Fried in a mixture of walnut oil and butter, these are incredibly good. I don't make codfish cakes that often anymore, because I'm tired of people talking about committing suicide. They're not that good. Fucking codfish cakes. Maybe, as your Jewish mother said, you should pay more attention to detail.