Saturday, April 24, 2004

Whereas the room was a flat, frightening medicine pink now it is Shimmering Lime after Dr. Waffner and I painted and rolled the stomach lining colour into oblivion in anticipation of his and Jen's pending daughter. Mid-paint Deb and Sarah came by and I gave Sarah a brush to pretend paint a myriad of colours - I do not think that she was convinced.
Lead Boy Colleague called to tell me that he broke his ankle. In his driveway. Playing catch. Now I am mindful of the pratfalls of mine own driveway, its hidden dangers.
Watched moments ago the thrilling conclusion (to borrow this recurrent phrase of one with whom I mingle) of the doc about architect/artist Maya Lin, the femme behind the VietNOW Memorial as well as the Civil Rights Mem in Montgomery, AL and others. I'm about to transcribe a speech she made after receiving an honorary doc at Yale. And portions of this speech are going to be transmogrified into my thesis statement for Art/Law School. So, JR, if you are reading this, these brilliant haberdasheries are really the brilliances of Yours Truly. I meet again with JR the second week of mai when I'll be regaling him with tales of waiting for action, action, action on Middling City industrial sites and my bumpings into words like aforementioned. Maya Lin, Sam, the movies that Kennedy shows me, my own random art awakenings are the thesis with the mostest.
Awake Love.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

As if the world doesn't inspire enough confusion there arrived this snippetlike story on televised and self-imported Middling City local news, burst into the midst of the international news of MidEast sandblasting.
An Eagle Scout of long face and local suburb had gathered canned goods for a Middling City food pantry when "his collection went up in flames."
What the fuck, I say and please pass the thorough journalistic edge, s'il-te plait.
Flames. Cans. A home burnt to the ground? Where in hell was Eagle Scout hording these cans. I need answers. I find none.
Canned Love.

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

I'm, like, so totally jealous of this guy who's writing a blog about working at a boobie bar and whose writing style is A-OK but, I mean really, whyowhy is he a blog of note when Yours Truly has never been? Kev, if you are reading this, no hard and craggly-assed feelings, but, again, really.
So yesterday I was fondling (no, not boobies, pervert, skim your thoughts along anew, afresh) articles from the James Joyce collection of Middling City U. It had been a good 20 or 25 years since I had last done so, when ol' pal/flame Patrick G worked there and I rap-a-tapped Joyce's walking stick along the orange carpeting and wrapped his specs around my inquisitive and illustrious head. So now, a few decades later, les lunettes are broken beyond belief and repair and the walking sticks are still intact. I had a walking stick in each hand and walked towards the nice dear folks who had hired me, both not very observant of the most archivist laws of the land (you shoulda seen the way the texts and such were manhandled) so they were not alarmed by Yours Truly with a Jimmy J walking stick in each hand complaining of severe knee pain. Shots by Me of the collection are in celeb of the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday upon the Emerald Isle. My shots'll be used in catalogues, in journals far and wide. And they are smashing. Not as in smashing artifacts. The rez Joyce scholar was a quippa minute about all things JJ and after a few hours of his gushy reliquary reverence I wanted to stuff the large Motherwell-illustrated Ulysses up his arse. Which would have made Joyce, dear sweet stinking coprophilic that he was, darnt proud.
Poop Love.