A Season of Deaccession

April 21, 2012 Have lost hope for the complete healing of my arm. Range of motion is somewhat better, but interesting pains shoot up and down, or hunch like bits of glacier in unreachable places. After a haircut I cruised downtown, having an excellent Japanese lunch, calling at Blue Spiral 1, where I had not been in a while. Bought two works, which I will have forgotten about by the time the show is over and I can pick them up, so there will be a nice surprise. Went to the art show of one of my humanities students. She does hieratic shields, which I liked. Didn’t buy one of hers because her step-mother had laid claim to the one I liked. Bought a handmade iron and wood table at the Owen Hall art show. Ran into MG’s ex-wife, and couldn’t make the connection. Feeling bad about the house hunt, worried that Karen takes me to place after place that I don’t like (or which, in some cases, she doesn’t like) and that I’m wasting her time. She says not, but who knows? I sold my Priceline stock yesterday (to protect a huge profit from slow erosion) and realized that the results of the sale of that one stock would have been a 50% down-payment on any property I have yet viewed, so if money had been a worry, it was a mask for apparently unconquerable indecision. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to die here. Part of me is waiting for the opening of a golden door and a voice saying, “Come hither.” Part of it is fear for my garden. When I leave someone is going to plow it up and plant grass, and, fearing that, I would never be able to pass this point on the earth again. My storage people inform me that the place has been sold and a brewery is to be built there (on stilts, I hope, right there against the river). Must move my junk somewhere. If I can find time today I’ll go and see what needs to be saved, what needs to go to the studio, what can be discarded. The central purpose of the storage area had been 1) to store the remnants of Urthona Gallery, and 2) to store the boxes and boxes full of publications in which my work appeared. I allowed the thought of just chucking all those boxes of magazine to enter my head, and now it seems reasonable, unregretable. Will I regret it nevertheless? Will I forget all that the moment the dumpster lid slams shut? It has been a season of deaccession. Sent Godzilla: the Musical to John and Bruce in New York. It actually seems way more their speed than Lincoln.