I wake up way too early. It’s often that way when the next day is full of things to do. It’s not anxiety so much as anticipation. I’m not a planner so there’s no joy or fulfillment in working out details of a thing that’s about to happen in my mind. I want to get on with it. It makes the lead up or in-between time kind of unbearable.

Two or three days before the hang I mostly give up on getting much done and just watch movies and do chores. I’m so focused on the layout of the show there’s no room for much else. It’s just treading water until I go pick up the minivan from a surface lot at Prairie Shores Sunday morning.

I sweat through my t-shirt on the ride over. It’s soupy humid out. This is only the beginning. Three more months of this shit to live through. I’m in a lousy mood because I got up at six in the morning. But there’s nothing to be done about that now. Now I steer the car—which smells like a carton of cigarettes—back home, pile the art in, and go get breakfast.

At the Duck they’re grumpy as well. Everyone’s drenched in sweat, then a shower drives the patio eaters inside. A few amateur meteorologists argue with the staff about the storm passing quickly and try to remain outside. Nothing worse than entitled diners. Those of us who’ve worked in the service industry know the customer’s always wrong. Servers, bartenders, and management vent but I just laugh and laugh, happy not to be on their side of the bar. It’ll be my turn again soon enough.

I get the show up in under two hours. It would’ve been faster but twenty minutes are wasted unraveling some ancient picture wire because I think it will be faster than removing a couple screws in the wall from the previous show. The trouble with being the way I am is that once I decide on a track, it’s reach the terminal or crash and burn; switching gears or thinking of alternate options is such an awkward and conscious effort that I practically have to list choices to myself out loud to seriously consider them. I tell Mike I’ll see him in an hour and drive the minivan back to Prairie Shores.

Back at Rainbo a couple minutes before 4pm, a couple friends are waiting outside already. We duck in and I run to the bathroom to swap my sopping t-shirt for a button-down. It is an opening after all.

My problem with events that center on me is splitting attention. I only know how to truly connect with one person at a time so jumping around from one person to another feels both exhausting and hollow. I feel like I’m cheating them and cheating myself. I don’t know how people can enjoy that. It’s why I never go to parties. Yet, at the same time of course, I invited all these people to be here and I’m grateful they showed up. I’ve had many other occasions—some much higher profile than an art show in a bar—with much worse turnout.

The main thing is to get the pictures out of the house and hope some or all of them don’t come back. I sell three out of eleven this first day. The show’s up five weeks. It’s a promising start.

If you refuse to visit the Rainbo Club, here’s a list of what you’re missing.

Made a poster for a thing next week.

Talked Dream Demon with Mallory.