Song du jour, du moment, is Beth Orton's Someone's Daughter.
Jaunty, rollicking, chock full of insight perfect for a day that has a chill that squeezes the remainder of life out of the perennials.
So Christopher Reeve died. And I recall shooting him near the Rainbow Bridge where one can cross from polluted Niagara Falls, NY to Vegaslike Niagara Fall, CA. His hands amazed me, all puffed out from meds and flakey. I made images of his body, his talking head, and those hands. At that time he had had no feelings yet in his body and speaking was laborious for him, intake of oxygen, phrase, repeat. It was painful to watch, I found myself holding my own breath and releasing it when he spoke. And I felt like death was upon him then, several years ago. Why was he on the Rainbow Bridge. For a film fest that never happened again, in Ontario over There.
This past weekend, post-wedding, I spoke with Father Jim of the Greek Orthodox Church in the Middling City, a man who if any, has a spirituality hovering around him - uncommon, I believe, in people of the Cloth. I helped him scoop the tray holding jordan almonds, the dual crown used in the ceremony, and some other nuptial paraphernalia, into a plastic bag. I spied the almonds. Are those jordan almonds. Yes, he said, have one for luck. I did. THEN he tells me about two seventy-year old sisters who kept jordan almonds from every wedding at that church, who put them under their respective pillows - for years - as it's superstition that the man of your dreams will come to you in the REM state. Did they ever marry, I asked. No. So much for lucky jordan almonds. I, too, now am assured a life of spinsterhood. Oh well.
Mad props to Beth Dearest for giving me her secret code to print out school readings as my own account with sheister-ridden XanEdu.com wouldn't recognize me as one who had reluctantly and yet diligently shuttled $80 or so at them for the same priviledge to discover last night that Holy Crap I can't access a thing and I'm on the road in minutes and what in hell shall I read on the trip if not good ol' snoozearific Michel Foucault et al. So now I'm armed with Foucault brilliance and won't have to pick up the latest MC News, USA Today or crapmag that I would not usually purchase but for that mysterious state of airport consciousness when suddenly flourescently-lit trash pubs look so... enticing.

Fluxes of Love.