we talked about going to my studio to get a string of turquoise and bills, and after reading the caretaker i wanted to see how i felt there. i'm fond of so many objects and r. causes me to see other things i forgot about and to search around on a quest like in a personal museum or wonder cabinet. the plants are dead now and even when i lived there they were steady not thriving. i wasn't a very good caretaker, in a way. i kept bringing home things that would be the fulcrum or the dynamic center that would curate the errant constellation. the last chair i bought was sitting forlorn under the painting of the fellow in his undies with horns. i said at the end i wonder what kind of person would live here if it wasn't me? it's pretty chaotic, but with a certain sense of intuitive placement. kinda smart even! i wonder who. by then i felt like i needed to go, i couldn't breathe well, there was sewer gas from the poor old plumbing and i burned white sage and r. was overwhelmed by the smoke. i felt the heavy with the accumulated neglect and stinky air of abandonment. i felt sad tinged with shame. yet there's much to love there if the right caretaker comes along, and it must be me and r. because i'm the one that left it that way, yet it can be a restful and beautiful space. it has an aura so redolent of the past, though. how can i curate the art from the impedimenta. if i could just open the windows, sage the fetid air, and call it an art show, maybe it would be lifted up piece by piece and carried away. maybe one day it could be me in the chair spinning in the empty room and r. doing a rope dance around me.