Fake Snow

Oriental Non-fruiting Pear trees. I'm told, but I've been told a lot of things and only some of them are true. Hard rain and big winds last night and this morning the blossoms fell in thick sheets. The deposition of white petals. Final resting place is the nearest downwind curb. Filled the last of the ten thousand holes, sanded this afternoon. I'm Saturday staff tomorrow, probably read art books, maybe break out the painting equipage. I miss Sara, to smoke and talk with. D, or Superman, as we now call him, able to design and leap tall building, is becoming too much the Conrad story, where the gifted young man leaves his humble beginning behind and sails off into that other world. OU, MFA program, full ride. Some other museum will snatch him up, Cleveland or Chicago, but we have years before that, the program is three years ($65,000, if you're paying) and it'll take a year for him to winnow the job offers. This day and age, able to work from home, and Carma has a great job here, we might keep him a few years, maybe forever, never assume or predict. I could be Associate Artistic Director, don't particularly want to be, but could, though I'd bitch and moan about meetings and talking on the phone. I'm not a phone person, I hate meetings. I'm best with a mop, or a broom, or hanging a show, or writing you. I'm not that great in person, my habits of personal hygiene have slipped, I tend to speak honestly, my house is unfinished and dirty, I can longer climb an 'A- Frame' ladder. A significant shadow of my former self, a shadow none the less. I think about this, build a construct in my mind, where I should be, what I've done. Ultimately, I'm pleased, what I am, who I am, where I am, I only speak for myself, I have a list of people who read me. No small burden. Keeps me on my toes. Both in the world, and somehow outside. I have to look at my notes, I'm not sure what I meant. Not having a blueprint in front of you makes everything more difficult.