We're Good

First Saturday in forever that I didn't go to town. Too beat-up to go another round. My feet hurt and my left hip is a pain in the ass. But I'm conscious, and that's a glimmer of hope. I go and run the Jeep for 20 minutes, for the heated seat, and that's a great comfort to me, a little heat, well applied. I read some recent poems by Stephen Ellis that were so good they defy any description. He's writing, right now, better than anyone in the language. Nothing, it seems, is beyond his reach. Thunder, I have to go, thank god I ran the AC unit to get the house down to 78 degrees. I got some black olives and baby gherkins out of the fridge, a bottle of Riesling, some saltines and kimchi; I can make a meal out of that. Hours later the power comes back on, four in the morning, I'm sleeping on the sofa when the fridge comes to life, and Black Dell says "Please Wait", which is the universal sign that I'm reconnected. I'd gone to sleep with my head-lamp on and Lucretius open on my chest. He says, directly, that the gods don't exist, and that we're pretty much on our own, that we should eat, drink, and be merry, because tomorrow we're going to die, and that's the end of the story. The Humanists, primarily, were recovering the language. Gutenberg and the earliest printers, the incunabula, actually had it fairly easy, Latin was fixed, Claxton had a different row to hoe, English hadn't been codified. They were speaking French, in London, and in Scotland they were pretty much still eating babies with fish sauce (Garum, a fermentation of piscatorial left-overs, a gift from the Romans). The Angles and the Jutes. Blue Picts flitting through the woods, amber and woad. It seems like I make this shit up, but I was reading about using teasal seed pods, to tease out fibers of wool and infusing them with various colors (indigo, onions skins, blood oranges) and it all seemed logical. One of Julie's boys was following me around, and I finally had to tell him that I just wanted to be alone. He was incredulous that I didn't want company, and I said that, no, I actually preferred being alone, because I could talk to myself, or predict the future based on the spread of chicken guts. Sometimes the world is too much. When I was that age, 10 or 12, a friend of my mother's best friend killed himself. My first suicide. I hadn't considered it an option. Everything was existential for a couple of decades after that. A few more friends killed themselves. Not a lien on the market, but a noticeable thing. I'm a long way from suicide, but I do see the allure. Ending everything for once and all. I've always found that the next thing was interesting enough to keep me from going to an extreme. Right now, for instance, it's already tomorrow. Seriously. When the power goes out I lose track of time. Time is merely a construct, don't get me started. I turn on some lights. Usually I sit in the dark, I like being hidden, but when the power comes back on, I often flip a few switches, just to see the connection. What? You don't trust me? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I'm pretty sure I got this right. Read more...

Looking Closely

I was over at the graveyard, looking at the way graves recede to mere depressions. Shallow pools in which leaves rot and you're left with a tannic mass that could cure old sneakers. Death, and dying, are a fact of life. You reach an age. Jesus, I think, holy shit, I'm old, and my contemporaries are dying. Old acquaintances, that I haven't seen in years, occasionally call. Usually late at night. Last night, for instance, a lady friend from the dim reaches of pre-history called to see if I was that person she had once known, and I remembered her, conjured an image of us love-making in the back seat of a '68 Impala, in moonlight, in a cemetery in north Florida. In those halcyon years after birth control and before HIV. Cemeteries were great places to fuck, because the cops never patrolled them. She'd found some of my writing online, assumed it was me, and with a bit of detective work, had squirreled out that I now lived in southern Ohio. No secrets anymore. Kroger knows what I eat. Not really, because I got my Kroger card with a false identity. I've found it useful to have a false identity, to make it difficult to track me down. Right now I'm a drummer in a rock band in Texas, I have credit cards and everything, a driver's license, an AARP card, a key to the city of Austin, inscribed by the mayor. It's wonderful being a printer, you can fabricate anything. Truth be known, and expression I love to use, because it means nothing, it's not difficult to create a false persona. I find, for instance, that I talk differently when C and I are talking about installing a show, than I do with someone who is asking me for a cigaret and they can't even roll one for themselves: I hate people who can't roll cigarettes; they're not to be trusted. What? Oh yeah, what we were talking about, wait, my memory is fading, I'm pretty sure I paid my land taxes, insured the Jeep for another half-year, paid the phone company for their sporadic service. What else could you imagine? Read more...

Chaos Supreme

I had to spend all morning doing routine maintenance, hauling trash, keeping the bathrooms stocked against the 16 kids at Art Camp. They got a musical performance today, Steve Free; then a little playlet they had worked on all week, then a show and tell with all the art projects they'd worked on. The ODC show arrived at 12:30, took an hour to unload. 102 pieces, all in artist constructed packing. Always the source of merriment. Most of the show is fragile, so nothing can be stacked, and we have to photograph some of the pieces in their packing, so we can remember the arcane method the artist had deemed acceptable for packing and shipping their art. C and M had to go back to Springfield, for her daughter's wedding, so in the late afternoon, I just guarded the art work. The kids, some of them, really got to me, they'd follow me around, asking dumb questions. Which would be cool, some other time, but I was working, getting ready to install a major show. The little shits. "Why are you painting that?" "Why are you mopping that?" "Where are you going?" There are two more of these, one in July, one in August. I might take one of those weeks off. So, we'll unwrap the show on Tuesday. See what we're looking at, spread it out; there's a lot of fabric art, wall things, and that's good, floods light the wall work, always spots on the 3D stuff. It's a product of the focus of the beam. 17 degrees, a very tight spread, pops the 3D pieces into focus, gives you some shadows. It's all a matter of seeing. Maybe not all, but mostly. 50% of the work, I recognize, I know the artist. The regional scene. Well versed in the ways of the world. That crooked tea-pot, for instance, is clearly a Scott Dooley. Read more...

Gearing Up

The gallery is ready, the pedestals are ready, I'm ready, and the show arrives tomorrow, probably right at noon, which is when stuff usually arrives coming from either Cincy or Columbus. We're an equilateral triangle. Dug the large riser out of the basement, and it was in sorry condition. Spent several hours sprucing it up and it looks great with a new coat of semi-gloss Gallery White. The black toner cartridge went dry in one of the printers, so I walked over to the office supply for a replacement (a single one was $124.99 and a double pack was $179.99, so I saved $75), then Mark and I installed it, but the machine rejected it. Walked back to the office supply with cartridge. They have one of the same printers, and it worked fine there. The guy told me to unplug ours, wait a minute, and plug it back it, and that it would reboot and probably be fine. It was. The Art Camp kids drive me crazy at their pick-up time, four o'clock, and I have to hole-up in my office, realized I hadn't sat down all day. Went and got an iced coffee (actually a slurpy) at Tim Hortons, came back and read an essay about Grant Wood. I could put together a world class show with Carter and Wood. Similar sensibilities. Sara and I should do this, it would have legs, I'd bet we could sell it to half a dozen museums. I'm looking forward to installing a major show with Charlotte. She has a quirky streak, and she has no idea how good I am at supplying quirky demands. Jerry built and jury-rigged is my middle name, a long one, I'll grant, but I actually thrive on the impossible. I've built three or four staircases that defy logic, it's always the materials that make it possible. I blew up at Kroger today. I've been buying protein drinks for a while now, because they're buy one, get one free, and that makes them cheaper than I can make them at home, and it's very convenient, 25 grams of protein, all the B vitamins, 200 calories; and when I check out it charges me for both of them. I tell the lady at the self-check, that it's a mistake, and she sends a bag-person over to check, he comes back and says it's only for the gluten-free, and I say, NO,NO,NO, it's a soy protein drink and I've read the label, and of course there is no fucking gluten. Warming to my argument, I point out that the two protein drinks I'm attempting to buy are sitting on a shelf above a sign that says Buy One Get One Free, Choc Soy Monster Protein, and the label says Choc Soy Monster Protein, but it doesn't actually say gluten-free. That would be like a bottle of water saying gluten free. I'm so livid, there are flames coming out my ears, but they won't admit they've made a mistake. I finally talk to an assistant manager, the manager is at a conference in Aspen, and he says that it doesn't actually say gluten free, I tell him to take his Choc Soy Monster Protein drinks and shove them where the sun doesn't shine, and that, further, his endive is wilted and I suspect his artichokes are from Chile. It's too late to placate me, I'm on a rant. Don't promise me something you can't deliver. I'm just short of making a scene. I don't like being jerked around. The whole drive home I seize thinking about how stupid people can be. Not me, of course, I reason rationally. I can't believe those motherfuckers are so stupid. Read more...

Making Sense

A few notes. Some muddy footprints by the back door. The lingering smell of tobacco. What trace of me remains. I share a taste, with my Mom, for liver and onions. And I still count coup, when it comes to keeping track, just as a way of marking time. Even when it doesn't matter. When I'm alone and no one is watching, I tend to arrange things in a certain order; two peanuts for Mad Tom and be damned for the rest of them. I'd like to think there's an order, but I suspect chaos is at root. The tell is when a crow makes more sense than the wind. Tonight, for instance, after I shut down, the wind was howling a new ground, and the rain was pelting the metal roof; hail at one point, staccato, and the mere sound of it would raise the dead. I wondered why I was witness, an idle thought, nothing philosophical, and a clap of thunder exploded right on top of me. The house shook. I thought I might be dead. When I realized I wasn't, I put out a couple of buckets, to harvest the rain, put on a headlamp, rolled a smoke, and considered my lot. Alone, needing all the things I need, stuck on a ridge in Ohio. It doesn't make a lot of sense. Factor in new relationships and the passing of the guard. In some ways I'd like to leave it all behind, but I'm interested in what might happen. What I've discovered is that if you change a single comma to a period, everything is different. Makes me careful, where I place my feet. Just a thought. I still surprise myself sometimes, and make no bones, that's why I'm still in the chase. I don't bring anything new to the game, but I do tend to notice things. Today was an explosion of Day-Lilies. I had to pull off the road. They were everywhere. I was so distracted I missed my turn and drove the long way around; in all the bottoms the lilies were rampant. Day lilies, Tiger lilies, and a hybrid I think of as my own, that has begun to emerge, where feeder creeks flow into the greater drainage, for now I just call it Bridwell's Lily. Read more...

More Painting

M and C painted all day, again. Paint companies, because of the EPA, have had to change some chemicals in the mixing base, which means the color is different, so they repainted, completely, the Richards and Mehser galleries upstairs. I was able to finish the pedestals, though at the end of the day C and I decided we might need a couple of low, large ones, for a cluster of pedestals, that will make it difficult to touch certain things, so I'll do those tomorrow. We're in good shape to receive the ODC show on Friday. After July 12th I have a month clear, to do some building maintenance, sort out the tool room, and finish editing the book about Janitor College. I need to do the final editing at the museum, because it's on the Mac I use there, I don't trust my system at home, so I'll take a week of vacation, but I'll still be in the building in case something goes wrong. No one else even knows who to call. Gives me a sense of job-security. If they fired me, no one would know how to turn on the lights. Ultimate power is held be the lowly monk who flips the switch. Almost closing time, I was down in the basement, killing lights, and ran into C, who was looking for a board of a particular size; I asked her what she needed it for, and found her the perfect board, because I know where everything is, it's not a great feat, remembering where you'd left the corkscrew. I have to go, big storms, the house is shaking. Read more...

Pedestal Dance

Black Dell is bitching, the house was 86 degrees when I got home. Not a happy computer. I gave it an ice pack wrapped in a towel, but the AC unit was having a hard time getting us below 80. Still, I'm more comfortable than I usually am, at this time of year. Got up at 6:30 having slept right through, a great night's sleep, completely refreshed; which was strange, because yesterday I thought I might be coming down with some stomach thing, but it must been something I ate (can't imagine what that was, 'would have been' is probably more correct). I can't help but notice Stephen Greenblatt punctuates the closing parenthesis the same way Kim and I do. Sara, I think, taught grammar, at some point in her teaching career, and we occasionally argue about points of punctuation. I always love it, when I find myself arguing about a mark of punctuation. The pedestals haven't been out for a year, and they're beat to shit; I bring up maybe a dozen, patch, fill, sand, and paint. Cycling through. Charlotte and I talk about the Ohio Designer Craftsman installation, she has photographs of most of the pieces, and she has keen powers of visualization. Working with her, I can tell, is going to be different than working with Sara, neither better or worse, but different, the grouping of things, the way things are massed. I sense what she means. More than one way to install a show. Some delicate pieces, she noticed, needed to be protected: ceramic eggshells and fabric art that was very ephemeral. Spun sugar on a matrix of cobwebs. She wants to create a 'no-fly' zone around some of the work. I see what she means, and work toward making that possible. This is a difficult installation, a changing of the guard, my place in it is different, I don't know when to offer my advice. Sara and I would go out to the loading dock, sit on our foam pads, have a smoke, and talk about a certain arrangement. Even the language is different now, the colors, the configurations. I don't know squat, really, my powers of observation only extend to the very specific. Certain things will sink. Lead, for instance. Cast iron. Other things will float. Various woods. I make no claim. Still. I couldn't help but notice you walked with a cane. Is that an affectation or merely a disguise? I only ask because my left hip is getting wanky. Read more...

Hornpipe and Fugue

A panoply of song. Maybe it's the moon. Ash and clay. Across the county line, in a cheap motel, love and laughter. I have to mute the radio and kill the breaker for the fridge, bug noise is a natural solution, for what ails you, in a literal sense. I can't have a conversation with anyone anymore that they're not texting or playing Scrabble with someone in France. It's annoying that everyone is at the beck of whatever call. Rainy, so I spent all day reading about The Renaissance. Such a surge against the walls that had been built around individuality and curiosity. Giordano Bruno was an interesting dude. Jerome. Anyone with even an idea of not taking the church dogma at face-value was burned at the stake, which tends to cut down on free-thinking. Botticelli's Primavera directly references Lucretius's De Rerum Natura. Had to go for a little walk to clear my head, two hard days of reading had given me a headache. A thunder storm had moved through (I got ten gallons of water in five minutes) and the air felt alive. When I got back home I heated three gallons of water, shaved, washed my newly cut hair (takes a lot less water to wash) and took a full sponge bath standing on a towel in front of the kitchen sink. I vacuumed today and even the house was a little cleaner. Made a list of the things I need for making kimchi. I need a colander, where the hell did my colander get to? Some fish sauce, some ginger root; then next weekend, a head of Napa Cabbage, a head of garlic, a large sweet onion (I'm substituting sweet onion for daikon radish); I have a lot of ground and liquid peppers. That's it. You just cut up the cabbage, cover it with water, cover the bowl, let it sit at room temperature for a day, drain, rinse, then mix everything together and pack in a non-reactive vessel, covered for another day at room temp, then in the fridge for a week, and it's ready. This is easier than making bread, and making bread is simple. Recipe says it makes six pints, so when I open the last one, I start a new batch. I had beans on toast with kimchi on top, tonight, and it was quite good. I'm thinking about opening a restaurant on the ridge, ferry service provided, for maybe four or as many as eight diners, who would eat whatever I was cooking that night. KIMCHEE. Book a night and take your chances. Read more...

Just Saying

Greenblatt, in his fine book on Shakespeare, Will In The World, weaves a cogent and interesting narrative. His knowledge of the life and times is truly astounding. His grasp of the plays amazing. A wonderful way to have spent the day. A word popped into my head yesterday, in the pub, having my Saturday mid-day pint. There was a beautiful woman waiting on a bar stool for her to-go lunch order, lovely long straight auburn hair, and I thought zaftig when I went over to pick up her keys, which she'd knocked to the floor getting money out of her purse. I told her that her hair was very beautiful and she flashed me a hundred watt smile and demurred a 'thank you', almost under her breath, which took my breath away, because it was so much a bedroom voice. The pub was nearly deserted, but there was a former bank VIP down the way, the only other person at the bar, Michael, and we've started, recently, having short conversations. He's smart and liberal, and also enjoys a mid-day Saturday pint; and when I sat back down at my stool, just in time to watch Renaldo score a goal for Real Madrid, he said that she was a very attraction woman. Zaftig, I said, without a moment's hesitation, and went back to watching the replays of the goal from every possible angle. He had his phone thing out, as most people do, and I peripherally noticed he was typing something. Then he said to me that the word I had used was exactly correct, and I said, yes, that I knew it had been, that I actually stored words against their future use. Auburn is an interesting word also, from either the Yiddish or Old High German for 'off-white' to meaning 'light brown'. In the 17th century it was albrown. Someplace in that word-search I got side-tracked into ablate, which led to trying to remember what the fuck the ablative was in Latin. Nothing if not confused. In geology it means erosion, to erode, to ablate; in literary terms I'm not so sure. When I'm unsure, in language, I always try to imagine an actual situation, what was said there. It's a conceit, that I could imagine, but I play around with that. Once I was a weaver. Falstaff, Henry The Fourth, Part Two. By 1600 Shakespeare, writing Hamlet, was moving into the intensely personal, forging the language he needed, hundreds of new words in that one play alone. His son, Hamnet (twin of Judith, named for neighbors in Stratford, who named their first son William) had died in 1596, and in 1601 his father died. We know he played the ghost in productions staged in 1601. And he still had some plays in him, Othello, Lear, Macbeth, and The Tempest, some late collaborations, before he retired to the farm. A row left to hoe. Read more...

Personal Day

Slept late, delicious, brunch (yogurt, eggs, kimchi), gathered the laundry, made a list, and headed to town. Stopped at the museum, to see if C and M had everything they needed. They are painting fools. It was just noon and they had 50% of all the painting done. Amazing turn of events. They ran me off. Did my laundry, stopped back by to chat with TR about the schedule, went to Kroger, came home. Hot muggy day, and after an hour the old AC unit can only bring the temperature down to 81. Black Dell likes 78, so she's laboring a bit. When I stopped back by the museum, I looked up kimchi (kimchee interchangeable) and got what looks to be a very good recipe, I read a dozen or so, and a couple of interesting articles, to make sure I had the process down. It is fairly simple. I'm going to have to get Anthony to throw me a ceramic fermentation vessel. I can use a gallon glass jar in the meantime. A solitary crow was watching me most of the afternoon, I think waiting for a new round of dead mice. First it landed in a sumac bush right outside my writing window, pecking at last year's seedpod and glaring at me through the window; then, a while later, it landed in the young hickory to the southwest, and just stared at me for a couple of minutes. I'm sorry I don't have any dead mice (or "I'm sorry, I don't have any dead mice", which are quite different sentences) but I don't, which is too bad, because we could have done some bird/human bonding. Had a cigaret with Ronnie, at the farmer's market, watching people. The young woman who sells honey is a stunner. A great body and great posture, which is a killing combination, and she's well aware of the impact she has on males. The drive home was interesting because of one matter: a timber rattler in the road. I stopped, to see what it was doing, maybe to encourage that it get off the road; a good-old-boy, coming the other way, wanted to run over it, but I was parked too close, he shot me a finger and nearly shot off the road. Too many Bud Lights, too early in the day. I run the snake into the bushes by stamping my feet, rattlesnakes, maybe all snakes, hate vibration. I'd guess because they have so much surface contact. And it scoots off, into relative obscurity, beneath the under-story. My history with snakes goes way back, and I don't like them, but I don't kill them for no reason, better we should just all go our separate ways. The driveway is canopied almost to being a tunnel, except for a couple of spots where trees have fallen and the light comes through full-bore. One of the places where the light is intense is right at the beginning of the steepest part of the slope, and I'm always blinded, this time of year, coming out of the canopy. I've taken to stopping there, shifting to 4-wheel low, and creeping up the last hundred feet, because it's so difficult to see. There's not a lot of room for error. Consequently, I always feel great when I achieve the ridge, do a little jig, gather my parcels, beat it on down the road. The super-moon just hit a break in the trees and it's a lovely thing. Reminds me of the night I was detained for fornicating on the beach, south of Ponte Vedra; the potentially arresting officer realized that if he was off duty, he would be doing the same thing. After the pill, but before HIV was the heyday of recreational sex. Now I'd need a certificate and an isolation period, and even then, I'd be concerned. The Queen finally got it right, at Ascot, after 207 years, picked the right horse and won 200k, which I'm sure she needs, with the price of help and all. Read more...

Frustration

A world of things to do, but I ended up several hours getting the new alley gates operational and lockable. I heard an odd noise in the alley, I could tell it was someone sitting outside the loading dock doing something with an electric tool, went out to investigate. It was Tim, wonderful guy, large, in bibs, grinding a piece of the gate, one of the down rods, that had been, in fact, too tight. He finally gave me the keys (the two gates are not keyed the same, which is a pain in the ass) so Pegi and I officially opened the gates and walked through. I needed four locks that were keyed the same, for the down rods that secure the four side panels (unlock them, lift the down rods, and the entire gate swings out of the way for the very few times a year that we have to use the loading dock) so that the person gate, in the middle, can be opened separately. Precise language, sometimes, can be like pulling teeth. Went to the hardware store, for the first time, for four locks keyed the same, they had them, but when I got back I found the shanks were too short; back to the hardware store, for four other locks, but the shanks were still to short, so I pounded the metal flanges until the pieces fit better. Then the locks worked. Back to the hardware store to get keys made for all the parties that needed them. Felt like I was in a comedy routine. A guy goes into a hardware store. This Kings "SPICEY" Kimchi that Howard brought down is the best commercial brand I've ever had; a Korean acquaintance, in Memphis, made the best I've ever eaten, but this is very good. It's wonderful with eggs, or with a sandwich, or with anything else; I'm going to have to start making it, because I just went through a pint in less than a week. Fermented cabbage, how hard can that be? A head of Napa Cabbage, a head of garlic, a teaspoon of New Mexican ground red peppers, eight pints maybe, total yield, and I could start a second batch right away, let it age longer, then a third batch, and so on. Vintage Kimchi. Need a food-grade non-metallic vessel, a pickle bucket from the pub would be perfect. Need to search online for some recipes, a little kosher salt, a touch of sugar. Can probably forgo the ceramic pots buried in the ground. Charlotte tells me that Mark eschews the use of tape, that when he's painting a wall, he cuts all the edges freehand. Cutting Edges is a good title. I hope to do my laundry tomorrow, maybe stop by the library for some fiction, but I'm in a non-fiction mode, right now, reading Lucretius: he's so impossibly modern. Atoms indeed. Read more...

Some Headway

Sat at the front desk this morning, the volunteer was a no-show, and read a couple of essays about Rubens. A drawing of his sold for 48 million yesterday. In the afternoon I prepped some baseboard that needs painting, and cleared a path in the basement to where the pedestals are stored, brought up a few. The storage and tool room sections of the basement are a perfect mess. Mark and Charlotte told me today that they would do some of the painting on Saturday, that I wasn't to come to work, and that they realized I was overwhelmed. Gives me a chance to do my laundry. The ODC show comes in a week from tomorrow, and if I can paint a wall a day next week, we'll be ready for it. Better than I had hoped, actually. I get that show installed and I'm to going take off a week; read, do some editing, nap on the sofa. It's been a very hectic three years, D in grad school, Sara pulling back; and a hectic three months with the mess of remodeling, the long hours; and a hectic three weeks with D gone and the new co-directors. I'm about tapped out. We open the ODC show on July 12th, and it's going to be a big deal, patron party, fine wines, I'll probably make a pate, Pegi's girls serving in suggestive outfits. The usual loud laughs. Now I'll have to go to those things, because I'm a senior staff member. I keep my newest denim shirt and a sport's coat at the museum, so I can attend events; and I can make idle chat, I know a little bit about a great many things. I can do thirty minutes on the mating habits of frogs. papermaking, the birth of the Renaissance, Dame Nellie Melba; and I've acquired the ability to bullshit endlessly on subjects I don't know anything about. It's a talent. Not unlike hiking in new terrain. You tend to watch where you place your feet. Even in conversation I go back, replace a comma with a semi-colon. Keeping time. I look for a balance, not that I always find it, between what's happening in my life and the natural world. Take a walk, look at some flowers; drive slowly down a dirt road in the State Forest. The blackberries, where they're in full sun, are already turning red. A bumper crop. Ask away, there's no answer. Wilco, just make it stop, breaking my heart. Read more...

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. Read more...

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. Read more...