I'm back to classes and keeping up with the work. Seems mundane right now, and I need to write other thoughts. Called one of my professors on a bad grade - turned out he stapled my paper to an extra credit assignment. Two emails from him suggest he doubted I had turned it in, but he did search three times by his own account. Mistakes happen.
Early Thursday morning I first heard about Barry Bailey. The drunk was waiting for his ride to work. He let me know that an internationally renown artist resided here; the professor was going to save the world as he had before. Before he could tell me any more, his ride arrived.
Later, Barry himself let us know he was having an open house Saturday while putting beer in his fridge.
Saturday after the five hour session of jumping jacks New Orleans calls a parade I wanted nothing but a nap. I told the wife and kids I needed salad for dinner, left for the shotgun and simply sat. I should have made that salad.
Just as I was leaving for the studio my companions arrive and prevent me from backing out. We arrive at our neighbor's and I find that my father in law has apparently had an extended conversation with the artist. Barry notices a wooly worm and is thankful that this one does not bite. I pull out the macro lens and take my only picture of the night. Took 300 at the parade and didn't really want any more. I am writing this now because I need to remember this evening clearly without any.
We sit down and Barry starts telling my story in grandiose. Ten years in the Navy. Him: 'Nam; me: Guam. Him: captain diver; me; first class tinker. Start teaching. Him: building; me: fixing. Traveled North Pole; Equator. Made art; played guitar. Raised Children. He was starting three businesses: bakery; smelting; and face painting. He played Tom Waits songs. Then he handed me the guitar to show the others his art. I played it so he heard my art. He found a second guitar with my preferred gut strings and we played. He seemed to enjoy that as did I.
Sailors exaggerate like fishermen. I pretty much think he's had a life adorned to weave a good tale. But Barry Bailey is a sculpture instructor at Tulane. Seems he was real. Too real in his worn work shirt to believe the fantastic tales. But they were his best truths, just as we should all tell. And the worst truths as he recounted Katrina.
I made a friend and learned a lesson. My initial response told more of my skepticism than of his character. Much like my professor.
Early Thursday morning I first heard about Barry Bailey. The drunk was waiting for his ride to work. He let me know that an internationally renown artist resided here; the professor was going to save the world as he had before. Before he could tell me any more, his ride arrived.
Later, Barry himself let us know he was having an open house Saturday while putting beer in his fridge.
Saturday after the five hour session of jumping jacks New Orleans calls a parade I wanted nothing but a nap. I told the wife and kids I needed salad for dinner, left for the shotgun and simply sat. I should have made that salad.
Just as I was leaving for the studio my companions arrive and prevent me from backing out. We arrive at our neighbor's and I find that my father in law has apparently had an extended conversation with the artist. Barry notices a wooly worm and is thankful that this one does not bite. I pull out the macro lens and take my only picture of the night. Took 300 at the parade and didn't really want any more. I am writing this now because I need to remember this evening clearly without any.
We sit down and Barry starts telling my story in grandiose. Ten years in the Navy. Him: 'Nam; me: Guam. Him: captain diver; me; first class tinker. Start teaching. Him: building; me: fixing. Traveled North Pole; Equator. Made art; played guitar. Raised Children. He was starting three businesses: bakery; smelting; and face painting. He played Tom Waits songs. Then he handed me the guitar to show the others his art. I played it so he heard my art. He found a second guitar with my preferred gut strings and we played. He seemed to enjoy that as did I.Sailors exaggerate like fishermen. I pretty much think he's had a life adorned to weave a good tale. But Barry Bailey is a sculpture instructor at Tulane. Seems he was real. Too real in his worn work shirt to believe the fantastic tales. But they were his best truths, just as we should all tell. And the worst truths as he recounted Katrina.
I made a friend and learned a lesson. My initial response told more of my skepticism than of his character. Much like my professor.
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