The List

With the addenda and the sub-sets, the list has taken on a life of its own. We do spend most of the day in the basement, achieving what might pass for order. Dirty ugly work, especially when D decides (correctly) that we need to rip out an old door-jamb (no door) in the interest of widening a bottleneck between the elevator and the new crate storage area we created today. Truck loads of debris. Then tackled the pedestal storage area and got rid of another truckload, this one of useless boxes, and increased our storage area there by 25%. Swept everything clean, and even using a sweeping compound, the dust fills every pore of our clothes and bodies. Took delivery of the glass show, seven large pieces, off the back of a truck from Cleveland. Unloaded over ice and snow, nicely crated but no handles. Last thing today, we took the pieces up to the Richard's Gallery, six of the seven; five in the elevator, one at a time, and one up the stairs. The seventh has to be uncrated downstairs and carried up. It's seven feet tall. Might fit in the elevator, after uncrating. Sneezing fits in the afternoon. When D leaves I forgo a beer at the pub, wash my hair and take a sponge bath, bag the complete set of clothes for separate soaking, get a drink and read for an hour. Essays by Stephen Harrigan, middling good. Talks about some places I've been. An atlas becomes a book of memory. Five below, when D left his house this morning, zero when he gets to town, I'm waiting, in the back doorway of the museum, outside, smoking a cigaret. Actually, I'm leaning in the doorway, like a character in a French spy film, and when D makes the turn into into the Entry row of the bank parking lot, so that he can Exit toward Market Street, for coffee and scones, I flip the butt into the alley and flat-foot across the ice to his truck. But today is Saturday and we get Loretta to make us a Breakfast Wrap. It would stop a charging Rhino. Read an interesting essay about a tiger killing a keeper at the zoo in Houston, merely being a tiger is called into question. Memory and fiction are a lot alike. I might write some fiction. I was thinking, the grace of being a B writer, I think of myself as a B-minus, certainly someplace in the B's. I've always graded oddly, so I wouldn't trust me on this. At my adjuration (earnest solemn appeal) they judged me mostly on my crooked smile. I wouldn't lie if it made any difference. Trust me. I have to laugh. Fucking narrator. Cut the shot closely, he flips the cigaret butt into the alley, and walks to the truck. Cut. Voice over, some Bach in the background. I can't do everything, really; I can't do much, anymore. You and yours, I don't have a clue, but I do, what you need is the most simple repetitive thing possible. Lift weights. I'll rescue you tomorrow. Stand off to the side when I blow the door, then, follow my lead. We don't need to talk.I hate you, you know that, that you could understand means I could know, should know. That meant if you did know you should have at least made a move. Read more...

Learning Curve

I've read a lot of condition reports, but this was a new one, a painting by Charles Burchfield, "Trees and Ravine", quote: "Incoming loan condition: Water in bubble wrap. Foul smell". Also, several works on paper, and instructions that the light levels not exceed 5 foot candles. Which means breaking out the equipage. I love it when they get technical. D in, so we do the natural thing when there is an apparent disagreement in numbers. We empirically check. In fact, the truth is even more confusing. I had missed two painting, in my quadruple check yesterday, because two packages that seemed like singles were actually doubles. We had to pull pieces from their boxes to read the labels. Which means that we signed for 53 painting and we actually have 55. Still one short of what I calculate the number to be, but we now have a check-list and know which is the missing painting. Make a call to the museum of origin, finally get through to the guy who does my job there, and he remembers that the painting in question was pulled to be shipped back to Chicago. We have 55, we're supposed to have 55, I can now make the list Sara requested. Went over logistics today, for the next couple of months. Crates out the ying-yang and we have to create some order. Tomorrow morning we spend in the basement, clearing storage space, talk through the order in which things arrive and the order in which they need to leave. Try to move things just twice, coming in and going out. Intended to start painting walls today, but got side-tracked stripping vinyl signage. The new generation is thinner, as the cutting has become more precise, and the adhesion is better. I'm a Luddite, OK; I liked the last generation, slightly thicker and didn't stick as well, because you could peel it off. This new stuff I have to scrape with a razor blade. I'm prone to small nicks and tears anyway, and really shouldn't be trusted with a single-edge razor blade. A creche of blackbirds on the wire, a full Leonard Cohen, talking about the weather, but I couldn't quite understand their language. Bloody cold and colder coming. I'm spoiled now, sleeping warm, becoming a creature of comfort. Wittgenstein's cat lolling next to the stove, that retired bird dog, Ava, living for a boot massage under the table. Went over to the pub with D, and the fireman, Josh, was there, shooting down Irish whisky with stout back, and told us a very funny story about fighting three fires in one day. Mid-winter, snow, sub-zero, and his outfit was frozen solid. At the third fire he asked the nozzle guy to hold off for a few minutes, while he warmed his hands. Heat is always lost, that's the rule, in so far as I understand the rule. Maxwell's secret hammer. Read more...

Condition Reports

Sara is in Hilton Head, but is coming back next month, for a week, to organize "Against The Grain" and wants all possible information, so I'm comparing the catalog for the show against the condition reports. A big, expensive show like this, the condition reports are extensive. There are pages of data on the Thomas Hart Benton. The show divides itself into six sections, and, as it happens, we have six sections in the main gallery, Sara wants to know how many paintings are in each section and the catalog doesn't provide quite enough information, because we're not getting 10 of the pieces. We signed for 53 paintings, and there are 53 paintings here (our ass is in the clear), but there are 66 paintings in the catalog, and I need to determine which are the other three, and where they are. It starts snowing hard and everyone goes home a little early. I stay, going over the condition reports, which record every teeny bit of damage, every venue, looking for any clue. Hours later, it's still snowing and town is blanketed, nothing is moving. I go up on the roof, to get the panorama, and it's beautiful; lights and muffled sound of a train across the river in Kentucky, a thousand prisms as snow falls through the street-lights. I did take a break, after closing down the museum, went over for a draft at the pub. No one there but the pregnant waitress, Lindsey (who I now call Blimpy) and young John who manages for John and Barb, the owners. A Phratric environment. They're going to close up early because the weather conditions are so bad, but we chat for half an hour. I'm not really used to this kind of socializing, but I do it well enough. I like these people, and I can converse about almost anything. Walking back, careful of step, in the hazy penumbrae of light, I have no thought, other than where the next foot falls. Read more...

Above Freezing

The ridge is still snow-bound but rotting fast, spike out the stove quickly with very dry red maple. Wait, that was yesterday. Too many split-shots of Irish Whisky, with Murphy's Stout to chase. Anthony is a perfect drinking companion. The conversations I'd missed since the fracture with B. We talked about site-specific installations, specific gravity, and where we'll be when the cows came home. Open up the museum early because I'm expecting an electrician D has talked to about repairing some of the light tracks in the main gallery. Mark, I think his name is. He shows, a little late, because his 19 month-old first child, a boy, wanted Daddy. I've got a world of things to do, Clean up some dried vomit, on carpet, in the Carter gallery, strip hardware, fill holes, erase marks (there are numerous light pencil marks hidden by a hung piece: center-line, distance from floor, spacing from the neighbor) to allow for easier touch-up. Because the vomit is dry, I cover it with a very wet towel, leave it to moisten. I took a course in this. Removal Efficiency, after the mandatory Detention Time. Vomit is easy to clean, if you catch it wet. This case is a little odd because the vomitor was moving away from the bathrooms, toward a quiet corner, which me wonder what he or she was drinking. I get a whiff, through the towel, of gin, which must have been from a flask, because it wasn't an event with a bar. I have to remember to tell you about the recent experiments with left-over mashed potato croquettes. Pegi asked me about finger-food for the opening, mid-western and my first thought was potatoes. Sling whatever barbs about profiling, but they were the first thing I thought about. I'd seen some on the Food Network, god bless Hulu. The electrician shows and this is a two-man job, because the dimmers and breakers are 70 feet away from where Mark is working on a ladder. I need to stay close, so I refill and sand the holes from the last show, flip switches on and off. Once you soaked the dried vomit, you wipe it up, I keep old tee-shirts for the soaking and wiping and then just throw them away. Not that different from baby-milk-puke, or a ewe dying from a prolapsed uterus. All of it is pretty much the same. There's a new show of Rockwell Kent at Denison. I know way too much about Rockwell Kent, I own some of his work, found two of his original cartoons, in an attic on Cape Cod. I was teaching Waste Water Management at the time, but there was this Hungarian, teaching a curse in Transcendental Waste; a weird woman, She took no excuses and failed almost everyone. It's hard to say when I'm serious, and when I'm poking fun. Take Astra, for instance. Consider the three different leaves on a sassafras. Consider almost anything, for that matter. Patsy Cline, John Lee Hooker, always the other side. I actually wrote down a recipe, does that make me a Republican? Read more...

Unhanging Alice

First, though, I must mop the back hallway, to see how the new finish held up to reception traffic, tracking in road salt. Excellent mopability. Then, as I was in mopping mode, swept then mopped the common room and bathroom upstairs, then vacuumed the offices. The Alice pieces are fairly light. I get 16 of the 19 pieces in the monster crate solo, while D designs an announcement card for the Brent Lee glass show. Early afternoon D joins me and we get all of the Alice crated. 15 pieces in each of the two other crates. 49 pieces in three crates. By comparison, the Mid-West modernist show, "Against The Grain" is in nine crates, four shipping boxes and five large open boxes holding several bubble-wrapped paintings each, so 18 packages. Total of 53 pieces. Much to do before that show hangs. Everything needs painting, after patching the 78 holes. Have to get the pedestals ready for the glass show. Found a missing painting from the permanent collection yesterday, it's in the Governor's Office in Columbus. Some confusion with the loan forms. So, I've found everything in the collection except for two photos of Roy Rogers. He was from around here, the esplanade is named for him. Best hot-dogs in town used to be from a street vendor there, but he's gone, now, and there's just a plaque. Roy in bronze relief, with his hat at that cocky angle. D had to get home, with Cool Whip for the pumpkin pie Carma had baked, but I went to the pub and had a shot of Paddy, my new favorite of the Irish Whiskies. Had a small chat with Jordan, the beautiful but seldom smiling and always quiet waitress. She asked me where my partners-in-crime were, and I said they had families and a life, She asked what about you, and I told her I lived alone in the woods but the Director of the museum was out-of-pocket and had asked me to stay in town in case there was any problem. "Against The Grain" is a very valuable show. She, Jordan, asked where I slept, and I told her I didn't sleep, just drank coffee and walked around with a baseball bat. Got a laugh out of her. It's hard to be completely up to speed in real time. Usually you think of what to have said later. So many filters between what we think and what we say. "Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past." George Orwell. If you're not in it for the bucks, you tease out meaning for it's own sake. The problem with history is deciding what to believe. There's this weird guy we run into at the pub occasionally, who feels it necessary to invade our private conversation. I can ignore almost anything, but the hair on D's neck prickles. The guy came in while we were lunching today, D picked up his bowl and downed his soup, asked Isaac for our checks, and got us out of there before he would say something really rude. He, D. hates these interruptions in our conversation. I'm afraid he's going to kill the guy, it occurs to me I might have to kill the guy, so D doesn't have to. I don't have much of a temper, but I won't see my friends suffer. If it wasn't for the Cool Whip I might have gone for a piece of pumpkin pie, so I could explain the theory of fall-back positions. On the Intimacy Scale, most of the people at the pub touch me now, when they're passing or giving me some water. I hear Bach in the heating ducts, a sonorous longing; what's bringing Alice down off the wall? A change of venue. Internet server went out. I'd stopped writing for a while, to read, and had saved, so didn't lose anything. Went out to the ridge this morning. A different world. The snow is mostly gone in town, and the temps above freezing, but on the ridge the snow has settled to a four inch crust and the driveway was solid ice. I'll try again tomorrow to get to the house. Dave said he could work on the truck net weekend. The lake was frozen over and covered with snow. I stopped to walk down to the spillway. That interesting visual phenomenon where the napp of water lifts the edge of ice so it can escape. A pileated woodpecker and three crows. The remaining ducks were crowded into a picnic shelter. St Augustine said that memory is the belly of the soul. Read more...

Fairly Abstract

Heavy lifting. Days that D works we need to get many things done that I can't do alone. The awkward and heavy. Place is a mess, serious work to be done. Take down the Alice show, pack it in the ridiculous crates, the heaviest one is 303 pounds. Stupid. Get those ready to ship. The modernism show arrived, on schedule, during the reception for the student show. Well packed, we unload the truck, there are four of us, in twenty minutes flat; all through the back door, didn't have to use the loading door, which was a good thing, because the alley is a sheet of ice. Good test for the re-finished floor. Put that show in the main gallery, which is closed and newly secure. Big show, 53 painting, can't wait to see them, hold them, hang them, look at them for a couple of months. One of the cool perks of hanging art is the degree of intimacy involved. We get to wear the white gloves and handle things. First though, after unhanging Alice there will be 90 or more holes in the walls. The next show for upstairs Brent Lee glass, will be coming in next week. Rapidly becoming a warehouse. Keeping everything away from the walls so I can do the patch and repair. Crazy amount of damage this time, so many anchors, and the next show will be the same. Wall anchors generally, by their nature, are permanent attachments; but in museums, they're temporary, fleeting even, a one-night stand. Several lists started in broad outline; projected needed hardware, schedule of daily events, painting projects, keeping an eye at the market for more of those mussels. Pegi, with a co-worker and six kids are going on a retreat (a yearly thing) where they listen to music and consider what Cirque dance stuff they might do in the coming year. In a paranoid frenzy, Pegi asked me to be the person someone would call if something went wrong at the museum, asked me to stay in town for another couple of nights. Sure, I said, it's heated, and there's hot running water. Being a "B" writer is OK, a minor regionalist, I'd take that. I'm not much, really, other than minor regionalist. The problem is if I stopped writing, I wouldn't have anything to do; then, I'd already b a problem. I've done the math. If nothing you ever say counts against you, you might plead simply dumb. These these Wal-Mart gals are perfect. I rest my case. What I thought I meant. Read more...

Bowling Trophies

Just kidding about the bowling, though I did enjoy it when I was in High School. For five bucks you could bowl unlimited games between midnight and five AM. I played in a league for a year, because I wanted the shirt; bowled a 617 set, with a 239 high score. But I just found a picture of the trophy I won at the Mopping World Championships. It was, or still is, a beautiful thing. I sold it to finance the publication (pay for the mono-typing) of a book of strange Gaelic Tales that had never been translated. Excellent project, beautiful book, letterpress, of course, with four-color block print illustrations. The trophy was specially designed and constructed. A bronzed Fantail Loop mounted on what almost looks like a candle-stand. Oval chevron-inlaid top tilting above a baluster and urn-form support on three down-swept line-inlaid legs ending in spade feet A handsome thing. I gave all my Public Speaking and Debate trophies to my High School. Had all the medals, the gold and silver ones, mounted as charms on a bracelet my Mom wore for many years. Wrack and opinion. I don't keep photographs. Nothing left but memory. I'm almost done reading about the history of furniture, burning out on it. Anything can interest me for a while, even nothing. And now I can describe the base for the mopping trophy. In a book on chairs, today, here's the description: Outstanding Federal Mahogany Lolling Chair (a lolling chair, fuck me, I have one of those, but it doesn't look the same) having a serpentine crest, molded arms and arm supports and molded tapered legs joined by "H" stretchers. All Original. Massachusetts, circa 1790. They had fresh mussels at Kroger, so I bought a few things and devised a method to cook them in a small crock pot. This was tricky, but you know how necessity spawns invention. I cooked down some celery and onions in butter and white wine, with the setting on high, added the mussels. Took too long to open and they were a little tough, but I did this without a stove, and I'd made a lovely fairly hot Thai dipping sauce. Blue Mussels may be my favorite shellfish, followed closely by razor clams, and then, oysters, but this is a preference list from a guy who eats everything. Snails are good, large beetles without their legs, ant eggs are a lot like caviar. Pregnant women take note, high in folic acid . Fine set of six Federal carved mahogany side chairs, each having a molded shield back containing vertical slats connected with carved drapery, rosettes and a central urn, all over an over-upholstered seat, all on tapered legs ending in spade feet. Now that I understand the language, I could go on forever. Read more...

Secret Wishes

I communicate well with a wide spectrum of people. It's a talent. Bullshit, for the most part, but there is, embedded, a kernel of actual communication. Something. An interface. Language moves too fast for me, I'm several generations behind. I still spilt shingles with a froe. Not a question of right or wrong, but the way you learned to do a particular thing. I think about this a lot, being an autodidact and so rudely informed about so many things. I could make a list. I might do more things badly than anyone in the universe, I might well hold the record. The museum was closed today, no one could get to work, but I was there, so I fielded phone-calls. I made stuff up, and gave incorrect directions. This is a game I play, there are very few instructions, you roll dice and move a piece. Almost everything is a red herring. Talked with the bar-maid Libby, about playing fast-pitch softball. I love this game. I've learned to stop, on any Friday evening, wherever I find myself, Peoria, and watch a game. Buy a hot-dog, be a fan. What we were talking about. I forget so much, what I remember is interesting because I remember it. There a new book of 49 Emily poems, with illustrations by some graphic guy I'm supposed to know. Good to go, but I don't know him, and don't give a shit. because I know the poems. What other agent could you possibly bring in, a ringer, who would possibly meet your criteria. I was going to say maybe the bar was set too high, but I don't believe that, what we all really crave is to be engaged. I read Hannah and those fucking Germans. Critical Theory and everyday thought aren't that far apart. I call up my muse. I have her on speed-dial. I amuse myself mostly. Whatever else goes on. Assume you were me. What would you do? Read more...

Pending Snow

Spent part of the day on the ridge, got my mail so I can pay bills, came back to town because of the forecast snow, walked down below the floodwall. Cooked a pot of greens with salt-pork, some cheese grits refried in butter. Walked to the library. The sludge was frozen, on the banks of the Ohio, so I could skip rocks and look for interesting things without getting my boots layered in mud. Almost remembering something I curse the faulty powers of retrieval. Distracted from the failure of memory by finding a nice pearl necklace. The delicate chain is gold, because it hasn't been corrupted by the PCPs and other crap at water's edge, and the single pearl, surrounded by diamond fragments extends the argument that white is almost never pure. In bright sun I see a light blue in the center. There's a knot in the chain that I finally tease out using a splinter I carved from a log beached by high water. What is the natural world anyway? The Ohio is no longer a natural river, she's channelized, but things that wash up are a natural product of a given environment. When I write on the ridge, I walk around a lot, from window to window, looking at the way things are framed, Walking in town I see more of a panorama. No, not true, I still focus on detail, but when I look up, the scene, the view is not what I expect. A paradigm shift, but not that far, really. What I see. Park me in China and I'd probably notice shoes. Not a reference back to boots, but I do notice footwear. Mostly because the first thing I look at are ankles. I'm a student of ankles. They interest me. When Madeline took off her boots, which was seldom, her ankles were exquisite. Neither here nor there. I flushed a murder of crows, down on the creek bank, scared me near to death. Everything prepares you for the next time you come across the unexpected. A rule of nature. My computer locks up, maybe it's the snow. Still sore, I go to my pallet early. Down pallet on the floor. Hung the student show today, 24 drawings, and got them labeled. The Memory Project, a yearly thing. Some guy went to Central America, overwhelmed by the number of orphans who had not a single possession that pre-dated them waking up in an orphanage. So he photographs them, then uses art classes in the USA to draw sketches from the photos. Now the kids have a drawing of themselves as kids. I checked it out enough to know it's legit. A niche, not to put a negative spin on it. Some of the drawings are quite good, and some closer to folk-art. They all hang from a single point, a little serrated hanger with notches. A pain in the butt. Hard to get them straight because you can't see behind them, to find the correct notch. I do a decent job, the show looks good, really; I move some lights and it looks better. D didn't leave me any signage but I had a graphic idea and decided to just do it myself, note to phone Victor tomorrow and call in a favor. Please sir, if you'll cut this vinyl lettering for me today, I'll gladly buy you a case of beer. The barter network. A code that allows great liberty but imposes certain limitations. You can't go anywhere, you can't be away overnight, as the goats need milking, and there is cheese, that needs turning and salting. Bottle three cases of beer, decant five gallons of Elder Blow wine, that is to be added as an aromatic to a mixed berry base. Nothing prepares you. As it happens, this is the best wine I ever make, I remember it like earlier today. You remember earlier today, don't you? When we promised to walk five miles a day? Read more...

Recovering

Meant to go home today, but couldn't face the hike up the driveway. Dave can look at my truck next weekend, see if he can fix the 4-wheel drive. Not like I don't have enough to do. Supposed to snow again tomorrow night, and I can't get trapped on the ridge. Got to hang the student show on Tuesday for the Wednesday opening, must restore order in the main gallery, the library and gift shop, where we moved everything for the floor cleaning. The kitchen is a wreck, and there are probably cookies and punch for the opening. The tool room and basement are disaster zones. Taking early delivery of the Modernism Show Friday, and the delicate glass show, for upstairs, next week. My dance card is full. What I don't need is to meet the woman of my dreams this week. Spent a lovely hour with a prostitute at the laundromat, we were the only ones there, a Sunday morning. She called herself Ruby but I don't think that's her name. I refused her services in a nice way, and we chatted while we folded our warm clothes. She's sweet, probably a speed freak because she was trembling in withdrawl. I took her to Tim Horton's, bought her chocolate milk and potato soup, listened to her abused life. I felt like a reporter and wished I'd had a tape recorder or a smart cell phone in my pocket. She asked me what I did, and I lied. I told her I was an Emergency Room janitor at the hospital. It's nice, writing in a warm space. I miss Arial 10 but I'm willing to make some sacrifices. She asked me to take her back to her corner, the southwest side of the old Mitchell Lace factory. Which made shoe-strings, 80 years ago, in the shoe capital of the world, the deserted streets of which I now walk on a regular, though unpredictable, schedule. I sleep different hours, I'm not ruled by sunrise and sunset, the way I was when I just kept a large fire going at the outside of my cave, ate a lot of grilled mastadon. You remember those days? When we fucked anything that moved? I once made love to a warm liver. If we're going to be straight with easy, go all the way. Linda will know what it meant. I only trust a few people. Trust is really difficult. Most people cut a deal and sell you to the highest bidder. I'm fortunate, in the Friend's Department, I have several. They always post my bail. That says something, doesn't it? The quality of mercy. When I got up to pee, four in the morning, I turned on the lights in the Carter gallery and looked at paintings for an hour. Decided white is almost never actually white. Consider snow. When it's really cold, it's blue, and at sunrise or sunset, under the right conditions, it glows a kind of pink. Color is like sound, I don't understand it, the way meaning is constructed. The world goes on, unabated, anything you are is insignificant. We merely try to live as long as possible. Sorry about that, I was just thinking about death, and the way it catches us, every one. There are light touches too, the kiss of humor. One of the few women at Janitor College was a fucking hoot. I loved her. Madeline. She wore cowboy boots over peg-leg jeans. There was a lot of blue. Severe clear. Her boots were spectacular. I'd better go. Read more...

Transformation

More snow, but D made it in. We went to Market Street for coffee, and Loretta made us a breakfast wrap (one, cut in half, is a meal for two) that was outstanding; bacon, eggs, mushrooms, peppers, onions, and a pile of cheese. Thus fortified, we scrubbed the back hall, the last three hundred square feet, the dirtiest by far. Another six buckets of water, then we mopped the entire gallery again, another four buckets of water; then we picked small pieces of debris off the floor. I carried a plastic Kroger bag, under my belt; both of us knelt often, to scrape hardened unknown substances from the grout joints. Most of them, I think, are deposits of solidified cup-cake icing. We're both in great spirits despite two marathons in two days, because we want to see the finish, see if our reasoning, about this particular task, was on target. Crap, embedded in the final glaze, would be a tragedy. Locked in forever. So we are meticulous. Dues for Allah, a few glittery sequins escape notice. They're part of the permanent collection now. I cut all the edges with a foam mop and D uses a virgin 20 ounce Standard to spread the product. Terra-Glaze is an acrylic polymer with an ether dryer. We shouldn't lose many brain cells but we might fall asleep. After lunch, we started the application. There were some streaks in the first coat, which we were expecting. D was good feathering his edges, and we applied the second coat in the opposite direction. The whole project came together. The floor is beautiful. A stunning piece of work. Another example of Bridwell's Law #1, you take the worst thing on the list, you make it much better, and everything looks good. I'm surprised it's not my idea but D wonders if there might not have been a cubic foot of dirt. We could have settled the rinse water, then strained it, formed the residue into a block. Specific gravity probably close to sand, It would probably stick together because of the icing (after 28 days, icing becomes cementitious), what a cool object that would be. Pegi wants me to do another show, and I think it'll be about specific gravity, still on the drawing board. Which is a curious phrase for me to use, since I don't draw and seldom keep notes. But I'm thinking about it, in those dim dark recesses. Usually it's Linda that points out where I was going, she's an actress and understands almost everything is theater. Sometimes Barhart hits me from behind, music (and smell) can trigger events. Even a single word. Adumbrate. For instance. I'm tired and sore. I'm going to ingest some legal drugs and go to bed. Fuck a bunch of causitry. Causealitry. A dozen different spellings, I only give you the most recent. Casual. Nothing we could book him for. Read more...

Marathon

A perfect way to not spend a day. Tomorrow will be again. Every joint and muscle in my body is spent. D is half my age and he was walking dead, stopped us at 4:30, because we had stopped talking and were communicating with grunts and gestures. Seriously wasted. He had control of the scrubber, I mopped like a man possessed. We got 3700 square feet done, scrubbed and double mopped. Still have to do 300 feet of back hallway (the dirtiest floors in the building) then re-mop everything, let it dry, and do two coats of sealer tomorrow. This job would have cost a thousand dollars, at least. I used 20 changes of water in the six gallon Rubbermaid mop bucket, mopping up sludge. The Peroxy 2 foams the dirt out and there was an amazing amount of dirt. Disgusting, really. My senior year at Janitor College we took the gold in mopping at the Custodial Games, but I was so much younger then. Today, even using the Modified Chevron and the new 32 ounce Fantail Loop, paying attention to my body, using my thighs and paying close care to posture, it was all I could do to mop for seven hours. In my prime, well, I still hold the school record for Marathon Mopping. 42 hours (a ten minute break every two hours) before I literally fell asleep leaning on my handle. Mopping for the record requires intensive training. My mop wringer is dying, I'm going to need a new one in next year's budget, and they don't make the Geerpress Floor Prince anymore. I went online tonight, The Janitor Network, to see what anyone had to say about the new generation of wringers. I'm sure they're plastic. The heavy, metal, one I'm using now has lasted over thirty years. I used it today probably 10 times for every change of water, so 200 times, and I do that double-squeeze I learned in college, so 400 times. Heavy use. I can't imagine a piece-of-shit plastic wringer holding up under that kind of demand. We had to stop a couple of times to let the fucking scrubber cool down. An industrial tool. And we were pushing it right to the limit. Actually, the noise precluded any conversation that wasn't yelled. I mostly focused on what I think of, now, as a kind of mid-western zen state, in which doing and not doing are the same. I protect my body, the physical aspect of me, that's mopping endlessly, but I have that aspect well in hand, the rhythm of the Modified Chevron is like cross-country skiing, once you get your body in motion, assuming someone has laid track. Even laying track, I grew adept at gliding. There is no effort, when all the cells are firing. That many hours with a handle in my hand, and not a blister. That's what I'm talking about. What I thought I was talking about. Nine ways from Sunday. Probably mean something to someone. I have daughters, for instance. I got a new 32 ounce Fantail Loop, because I expected to total the recent new 32 ounce Fantail Loop. I can't write that enough, it makes me laugh. I'll get over it. But it is such a fine mop-head, so well constructed, so well designed, engineered, that I clean it at end of the day. D's collapsed on the stairs, and I'm cleaning my mop bucket, rinsing my mop-head, realizing she (mop-heads, like boats, are generally feminine) was good to go. I must have mopped eight thousand feet of floor today. This would have killed a cheap mop-head. I don't date those girls anymore. Fanny may be a keeper. You give a mop-head a name, and then what happens? You can't live within a mile of any church. I don't sleep with mop-head, that was an ugly rumor, but I do wash her hair, and comb it out. My god, I've thrown over the fox for a mop-head. Will my friends think less of me? Should I care about that? I monitor myself as close as I can, not much gets by me, but the deal is there's this panoply, a fugue, the ongoing nature of things. Which, of course, makes me think about the last time we connected. Forget the hand-cuffs. Read more...

Miscellaneous

First, made a list of errands. Try to remember the various things we'll need. Go by Janitorial Supply. They got in the Peroxy 2 cleaner we needed, the scrubber is ready, and one of their reps is loaning the correct brush. We buy his products, he supplies the brush. We've tried all the pads and brushes, this one has long medium-stiffness bristles that works on both the tile and the grout. Didn't get everything moved out of the gallery, but we'll make short work of that first thing. Got side-tracked into patching and repairing, then painting the little Mehser gallery as there's a student show opening the first of next week. What with the mopping and finishing, don't know when I'll install that. Stopped at the Office Supply for some things. Stopped at the hardware store for a throw away sponge mop, to do the edges with the Terra Glaze, and to get some spray glue, so I can do labels for the student show. Stopped at Kroger and got some Orange Cleaner, bought a few groceries, as it started snowing. I'm not going home until the floor is finished. They start installing the new alarm system Tuesday. I'll be the Night Watchman for a few more cycles. Just made the rounds, talking into my shoulder, rattling gates and checking doors. Curious, when I get back to writing, after the prowl, I notice that there seems to be another paragraph stored in Drafts. I'm new to Mac. Don't remember what it's about. Went over to the college, to touch a couple of bases. Involved issue. I talk with Pegi every day, and she needs help, an assistant, an intern, someone to do stuff for her, and also to help with the writing, press releases, radio spots. I thought a place to look might be among recent graduates from the Art Department who hadn't found work. Which would be most of them. I can vet the number down by asking them to write a short paragraph about whatever room in which we found ourselves. A simple exercise. Attention to detail is the critical element. So when I finished painting I went over to the U, talked with the art department secretary, told her to tell Lane, the finest of the Art History people, AND keeps in contact with his students. He might know someone. After work, a pint of Murphy's stout, the younger John, the manager, bar-tender four nights a week, comes over, where I'm sitting, nursing a pint, before retreating again to solitude. The Natchez Trace follows a buffalo trail. Compress history, you really don't have to remember everything. The occasional nod is often enough. Sure, I remember You. Listen, darling, I was there. Nothing, nothing, nothing, then a newsreel, your president admits he's a shyster. Kind of takes the cake. I don't know why I suddenly didn't give a damn. Fucking constructs. Pegi asked me to do another show, that really took my attention. Something that isn'd root-balls, was my first response. Life on the Ohio. I'm almost as Bob Evans as anyone else. I mean what the fuck, I need to eat breakfast. You, and your ilk. They drink decaffinated coffee as if was real. God bless their lost souls. Read more...

Toasted

Nothing quite like an Irish Whiskey tasting half a block from where you're sleeping. The sheer convenience of it. A dozen of us, sampled four, then Lee, next to me, ordered shots of three others, then the owner came over. I'd brought over the Johnny Walker Blue, that I more or less liberated from Florida. Karol had brought it over to drink, on the porch, at my parents; but there was a lot of other things to drink. The whole history of designer rums. So I took the scotch out of circulation, brought it back to Ohio, keep it in the vault at the museum. Had it here since Thanksgiving an still three-quarters full. At the pub I stand four, and then a fifth, to a taste, which then grants me a taste of Jameson 18 year old. A couple of draft Guinness, to cleanse the palette. I would never do this if I had to drive, period. Would not. And it is really nice to lay back, in a comfortable pub, and shoot the shit. I can do a line of talk, on a great many levels, about a great many things. Read 2 or 3 hundred books a year for 55 years and you can pretty much bullshit about anything. Really connected with the pub owners, Barb and John, tonight, We settled at the far end of the bar, and people came to us. Lee, a customer, and good friend of the owners, became the bartender for a while because John's leg was bothering him. I'm sitting there, watching, and participating in social interaction, and I think about how far off the ridge I am. Was then, when I was thinking about it. Which I remember now. Three removes in the blink of an eye. Ally ally in free. Trying to learn the language. Another plastic medium. I was taking signage off the wall today, vinyl detail, and I, as we, often do, left some words, plucked from the words that composed the signage. A cool medium, a deconstruction, whatever. Fact is, you can create meaning from left-overs. I don't know what that means. Interpretation is at least as difficult as translation. I left a message for D, in the Richard's gallery, it read:

INK SMALL
fen lit

and I liked it, it was suitably ambiguous, which gained stature for me, and seemed to be saying something. I listened, I'm a good listener; probably I was only ever laid because I listened. Originally, I thought I might be a lawyer, because I could imagine arguing my defense. More recently I wouldn't argue anything. Too much bother. Thought, like grass, should be mowed. Otherwise you end up with pre-verts. And verbs. Then nouns. God-damn mother-fucking language. What I'm thinking, is that I'd be more use to the movement, if I just died on top of a pole. We could get good coverage, Diane Sawyer. I'm not even tempted. I'd much rather die unknown. Read more...