Whatever hopes one might mount, you seldom reach the heights necessary for vertigo.

Some hang over chaos without a guard-rail. Others don’t pursue the rising or the mystery; they just want chump change: equal to the value of a pick-up truck (to hold the hammers, chains, and bombs),  and a cold beer.

Roust-a-bouts, layers of muscle added young, building tree stump arms; until the fluids no longer flow, and the joints don’t pivot.  Stake-drivers for circus tent erection, and finally on this site. Itinerants answer, “who is going to do it?”, for us.

Finally the construction of our tent to show ART has commenced. The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture will soon host emotive revolutionaries in shows valued by anarchists, avant-garde,  and moneyed collectors.  They will, no doubt,  declaim in agit-prop content meant to transform opinions and increase value: much a sacrilegious negation of romantic attachments to useful images, for laborers.   They will validate the art world’s hierarchal tabulation, voting either form or content, never use.

The support stakes driven: hundreds of blunt interconnected rhythms, strong arms, backs, swinging hammers; a plainness of repeated labors.  A summer job extended into the tired body’s incessant tension in the entrapping diligence to chores.

What are the possible meanings of hammer strikes?  These aren’t art gestures, no matter how filled with emotion.  The work is, after all, outside and preliminary.  Would the strikes mean anger, subservience, fear, a war dance?

The roust-a-bouts are not part of universal suffrage, they just keep moving and emoting.  Venting in sports road-bars. Weary violence, and “woulds”, and “coulds”, and “…THEY shoulds!…”. But roust-a-bouts have no acquaintance with “…THEYS…”.

And yet for a place to celebrate our elevated Art; they, the laborers, drive the stakes.

Happiness may be in the offing, rejoin us …next Saturday.