GNJohn always describes a series of events where shit starts breaking down as "Mercury in retrograde." I don't quite buy this explanation. It seems to occur too often. You be the judge.
It started even before the temperatures tumbled. In the midst of a hot period of production when it came to making objects de arte, things began to go wrong. I have a simple routine in the morning. I get up, take a leak, stoke the stove, go in the very cold kitchen, pour water in the Mr. Coffee, add grounds, flip the button, turn on the radio, sit on the couch and try to stay warm until the coffee is done. Usually I can't wait until the pot is filled, so I'll remove the first tepid cup. This particular morning I saw there was no coffee in the pot. You can imagine my disappointment, holding up the empty vessel. What went wrong? The light was on, but the plate was cold. The water had not circulated. I stood there, stunned. Then i rattled and hit Mr. Coffee. Nothing. I got a little rougher, then caught myself. Going ape-shit on the machine was not going to help. I forced myself to go to Walmart and buy a new Mr. Coffee- a white one this time.
Once at the Walmart I decided to see how difficult it now is to buy ammo under NYS's new gun regs.. It wasn't difficult at all. You have until April 15, 2013 to stock up on ammunition, without filling out forms and having a background check. I bought 2 boxes of 30.06 shells. That was worth the trip to the Devil's Emporium. Walmart killed all the little sporting goods stores that used to dot Sullivan County. Gun owners are forced to go there or drive 50 miles to Orange County. It sucks. But that's another issue. Back to my misery.
When the deep cold sets in around here it becomes survival mode. I heat by wood. The house gets fucking cold when it drops below 10 degrees. At minus zero it feels like the horse barn it used to be. The first thing to be effected is my tub drain. This means taking showers with soapy water around your ankles and bailing said funky water before the next shower. Next to go is always the water pipes themselves. Of course at this point I decide to do laundry. The full load grinds to a frozen halt once the thing has filled with ice water. I turn on the brand new kerosene heater in the gallery to thaw things out and forget to check it for 15 mins. When I do look through the kitchen door I can't see daylight. The entire room is filled with sooty smoke. About here I start to tweek.
The phone rings. It's my brother Duke. Duke lives in Me. So it's 20 degrees colder there. He puts things in perspective. He has a machine dug 10 foot deep well, with water that looks like it comes from a malaria swamp, and he's so thankful. Before moving to his present uptown digs, he raised two kids in a backwoods house with no running water, crapping outside in a hole, so everything is upgrade to him. I can't bitch about my cold shack, so we talk art. Duke would never call himself an artist, but he is, just not as tormented by it, as his older brother. He's as encouraging as I am pessimistic. It's a welcome pep talk. I don't totally come around to his line of thinking, but I am trying to be more accepting of other's points of view. If they try to tell me how deserving I am of acknowledgement, and to just be patient......who am I to argue.
But, as we all know this cannot be sustained. The temps drop further, the doubt over the past two weeks of arte production sets in, as I begin to question my entire "practice". I sit in the chair, a foot off the woodstove, legs wrapped in grandma's afghan, staring blankly out the window, questioning every step I've ever taken and why that has now led me to this particular.....? you get the picture. Even the cats annoy the shit out of me. I'm having none of it. I ignore their plaintiff cries. I show no understanding, irritated by their needs. It's at this point I slam the back door a little too hard and it sticks shut. I find this out as i try to dump a large pot of moldy water, with a skim of ice, out the back door. Expecting to have the door swing open I am surprised when it doesn't. My surprise causes me to sloosh the feted brew all over me and the kitchen. Then the door miraculously swings open, allowing the two cats to enter unmolested.
The phone rings again. This time it's RNButch from across the road. He asks if I have a minute? Covered in moldy stew water, two meowing half- feral cats rubbing my legs in my freezing, soot encrusted kitchen....of course I have a minute. I figured it was about the animals or helping Carlito, or some such neighborly business. But it wasn't. He said he'd been reading the blog. You won't believe what came next.
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