This will be a full week frame. That’s two days past my allotted time. Distraction found me. I lingered. Didn’t really spend much time keeping the bench from hitting the ceiling. Joe came by with the long awaited built-in wall units to mirror the one he installed several months ago. Now that we’re in Deep River the studio space, a.k.a. the FRP (Final Resting Place™) is slowly morphing into the vision I had in 2016 when we left the woods and came home. Joe did all the making and prep work in his workshop and then drove over for the installation. Then he left. And it was like, oh okay – now I have to channel my inner Queer Eye or maybe that John Pawson fantasy I’ve lived with since like forever – maybe now it’s time to get the inner sanctum aesthetic dialed in. Again.
That fantasy involves a life long obsession with order. A condition I’ve come close to at times. But – it essentially eludes me. It teases me. I live in a bubble (self-blown, of course) that includes this image of work space as art. Where clutter is the enemy. Where folks come and make jokes about “…which way to Radiology?” But not really.
Joe’s carpentry work is immeasurably tight. That second unit is in. And my energy since noon today has been on all things, but none of them involve this absolute perfect (so far) 56cm frame I started yesterday. Somehow I can’t concentrate, I won’t concentrate, until the room looks like a gallery. That desire is the demon I live with. That I’ve always lived with.
My life, my working life – heck, it’s all so commingled now – that life is like a child’s sliding puzzle game. I’ve been playing it since the Woodstock Era. You use your forefingers and maybe your thumbs, and keep pushing the little tiles around until the confusion you start with – that you live with – looks exactly like the picture you have for it at a given time. For me, that image is a moving target. One I wanna toss a net over and say, “Gotcha’.”
All This By Hand
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