Back to Work

 3/7/22

 Today started at two O'clock in the morning. I made the bad decision to say screw it, and got up out of bed, and made coffee. I sat in the dark in the living room until I heard the pot slurping and gurgling out the last few drops, took a w&b, poured a cup, and curled up on the futon back in the den. Still, way too early. It's Monday night after a day of getting nothing done. I'm sitting here, Monday, the 7th of March, the same day that I put up last week's post. but I'm writing a post that will go up a week from today, on Monday the 14th which will be today for the reader. But if I mention something that happened Sunday, it won't be yesterday, but rather Sunday the 6th, a week ago from yesterday. Time is confusing.

 I got last week's post posted. and made the tour through the bookmarks, and read the usual reads. It's all pretty damn depressing. Just like the last three years, now. The world is breaking. There is nothing I can do to stop it. We make what modest preparations we can.

Ironically enough, I suppose it's also time to grab what worldly pleasures remain, and enjoy them while we are able. Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow... 

Or yesterday.

Enough goofing around. Here's a cool link that I found on the origins of these five pieces of stone:

Anza Borrego Stone  

 

Wednesday 3/9

The base is flat; the center of gravity is right where it ought to be, and the surface has most of the natural curves and contours, but all shaved and sanded smooth like a chalkboard. A blank canvas- A day spent drawing and erasing. 

 

I mentioned getting myself hung up in rules that I just make up. Sometimes it's odd notions that don't make any sense other than that they somehow just seemed to be there.

One of the "rules" is drawing out a sketch, and then a plan on paper before beginning work on the stone.

I'm terrible at this. I don't draw, or sketch well. It's hard enough to translate an irregular three-dimensional object into a two dimensional drawing. Trying to draw what I think I can make out of that odd three-D object is just outside my skill set. I need to see, touch, feel, and do the sketching right on the contours of the  stone. Another weird case of having to give myself permission to do what I want to do.

Thursday. 3/10

I spend the first hour or so of every morning in the dark, curled up  in the corner of the futon in the den. I have the old brown comforter over my lap, shielding my hands from the heat of a sixteen ounce mug of strong, black brew. The coffee catches me just at the edge of dozing, and holds me from falling asleep. I achieve consciousness slowly; from many years of habit become ritual, the first stirring begins, "Our Father who art in Heaven..."

There's more to the morning meditation than the Lord's Prayer. All in all it takes over an hour before nature calls, or I've left the quiet space in my head for thoughts that address, "What shall I do with this day?"

That means a refill, and a move from the futon to the desk. As much as I despise facebarf, it's one of the first few stops I make in the morning. This to see if there is a note from my brother in Thailand, or any of the gang in the bicycle club.Weather, then mail, then facebarf...

Remember the peyote flower from last week? I got those plants, and some mushrooms, and some LSD from an acquaintance who went by the nic-name,"Termite". Termeezy  was one of those latter day hippie gypsies. He lived out of his van, doing sound at underground festivals, and just enough trade in psychedelics to keep gas in the tank, and food in his belly. He used to come to a lot of the biking events around the beach cities.

 About a year ago, he disappeared. There were rumors that he died, but we heard from a relative that he was in a convalescent after being very ill. 

Thursday morning when I clicked on facebarf, there was one of those prompts. "Memories from three years ago". 

It was a note from Termeezy:

 "You awake?" 

was all he had written. 

So I clicked over to his page. There was a post from his aunt. "Nick" (his real name) had died from the covid just the day before. Odd. He had been critically ill for nine months before it took him.

 

Next stop of the morning was email. I heard back from the city of Brea. They did not accept any of the three stones into the "Made in California" show. So there was sixty bucks down the toilet for nothing. 

Rejection. Look, I'm a grownup, and all that. I can accept the rejection, as graciously as I can receive an award.

That's bullshit.

I don't need to make snarky comments about  the cretinous, lowlife scumfuck gutter trash shit for brains assholes they had on the selection committee. I'll just assume they had a different theme in mind for the show. Or something.

(buncha' assholes)

So that's out of the way. Back to work. Spring is almost here.