Captain’s Log 6,047
After a week of exhibit planning, editing, and now installation, I have been swamped at the museum. I have been writing every day, just not here. The big challenge is keeping the staff cohesive and calm.
The only thing I can compare this to is tech week in the theatre. Last minute everything as all the pieces come together to make the show appear seamless and sleek. Lots of pounding and smoothing. Lots of floor cleaning. Lots of chain wrangling. Just lots.
Tempers are on edge. That’s the way it goes in a creative environment. Everybody feels the crunch.
I keep telling myself that the Portland trip is only 18 days away. Just 18 days away. I can hang with anything for 18 days. Well, maybe not anything. Maybe not skewers under my fingernails. I had a wooden matchstick jammed under a fingernail once (whilst playing in a barn – not intentional torture). I remember my mother almost puking on the spot when she saw me. Fortunately (or unfortunately) a friend of hers was there. The friend was a nurse, and she promptly grabbed me, immobilized my entire arm with the weight of her rather weight-enhanced body, and proceeded to dig it out with a fingernail file. That was the first time in my life I actually wished for death. I know now that I should have been seen at an emergency room, but my parents were of the belief that if you could still stand upright and breathe, there wasn’t anything wrong with you.
My mother was also a big believer in salt. We put salt on everything. Mosquito bites, impacted wisdom teeth, knee scrapes, ant trails, mouth sores, popcorn, watermelon, and pimples. Everything. The nurse who dug under my fingernail soaked my hand in warm salt water. She must have been in cahoots with my mother.
Maybe I should just sprinkle salt on everyone at the museum.
When is the weekend coming?