You have no idea.
No, you have idea(s) but I'll fill you in on mine. Mine ideas post-nightout, trolling for serendipity like I troll my happenstances with all of You for blogposts. Yes, I've become one of those writers who elevates, who alienates, a few. For art's sake. Is the muse forever a shining golden figure with snacks for one and all. I think not.
Tonight's gig yielded this unfortunate, yet fascinating, result. A woman with mental derangement (perhaps sensing in her condition that her kindred spirit, RR/666 had expired) was lost for hours.
Cops were called, flashlights were lit.
And two hours later she was retrieved.
As I left said gig I noted some with cell phones at the ready and flashlights out at the ready and thought Perhaps I should inform them that Ms. Kook turned up in the Cosmic L&F (lost and found, getwithit) but then again this is like summer camp when some knew and some found out and some never found out until the next morning over waffles and it was a study in political interpersonal honing. Hone in or be lost on a suburban street corner for too long, missing out on festivities.
Onwards was girl-on-girl social interaction and deflecting the unwanted attentions of male arrivers.
In one week the plane for complicated, not plain, grad show and tell and do and say and talk about get withitness.
Note to self:
David Beckham is allegedly soooo hot, yet not for Perfect You. Give me Kennedy and his wanton fuzz any ol' day.
Hot Love.

By daylight, as opposed to full moonlight, the lawn is a study in multiple layers, perhaps referencing the rice paddies that fly up into one's face upon descending upon the seaweed-rimmed, paddy-dense, plastic gadget-dense, and arid-in-parts country of Japan.
How.
Three boys, one bored girlfriend (with charming speech impediment) of one of the boys, two lawnmowers and one inattentive, weed-pulling adult (Yours Truly).
In a move to eradicate the Rube Goldberg miasma of the X (who should move to Tex), a new mower was purchased. Hip hip.
The boys complained of the shin-high blades of grass cutting them like hundreds of knives.
A glance from YT, over weeds. No blood, fine, just boy whines.
A glance over at the teens/kids to discover the bored girlfriend with her hands around the neck of the teen gangmember she's "dating," my pal, Andrew.
Back to weeds.

Weeding out loves no longer lovelorn.
Shorning love choking out perennials.

Love weeds.

"saw your blog about dead bodies in NYC.  remind me to tell you about the east-river-dead-dog-wedding story."

This just in, from a true, dyed-in-the-soul epinw reader/fanatic.

But, fercrissakes. Cliff-hanging in this day and age is so two hundred years ago. If you are to write to Yours Truly give full details, details, details. Do not, I implore you, casually toss off some Oh, remind me sentence for another time. This does not fly in my Perfect World. Dig.

To the penner of the snippet, more.

More.
More.
More.

And know, to not cliffhang others, your whole tale will be forwarded onwards to your epinw teammates.

Cliffhung Love.

11 days to blast off.
11 days to grad school summer session.
11 days to marathon art making and thinking and doing.
All in the super-charged environs of the Shiny Apple - delightful distractions and all. Suddenly memory rewinds to one day, when the pressures of one day in particular were so great that I escaped our building, 66 Fifth Avenue, for a one-hour walk around Union Square - OFF THE GRID, unfettered, notebook-free.
Strains of DreamWeaver back, too.
For art's sake am reading Mary Roach's book Stiff and now have a deeper gleaning into understanding how J.P. Witkin procures his own for his own. Bodies, cadavers, stiffs, they're freakin' everywhere.
Had to shoot an autopsy/dissection last year for Middling City U and the stench of formaldehyde or embalming fluid hung in the air like a swarm of bees.
Knife Call meeting coming up, more making, more doing, with my new bandmates.
Who rocks.
You rock.
I rock.

Love rocks.

Logic will break your heart.
So goeth the title of the disc by The Stills purchased this gray-hung day, along with the nouveau Stereolab (their usual and unshocking textures) and other items so sundry, so necessary, so small - like Italian curly paperclips. A must. The Stills, to not be confused with The Chills, The Spills, nor The Schills.
But the true reason I was even audio hunting was to procure something by New Zealand band Stereogram. None of that and note Stereogram and Stereolab are but a few short letters away in the great ocean of rock music.
It is completely official, Jen + Jamal are a unit, a bliss-drippin' post-nup couple. She was supremely Jen-like in her tardiness for photos and when she finally emerged and came towards me in the woods my eyes nearly dropped salty waters as she was so beautiful. And Jamal looked pretty hot himself. When we photo finished they were married by the rotund minister who married the couple I shot the previous day. Ministeressa is smooth on the mid-wedding patter, a real Hey, folks it's a wedding, fercrissakes, let's be all joyfully giddy and never waver from the reason for the season: Luff. Jamal picked some love-related quotes, some shockingly and deliciously snarly. My fav by Kate Hepburn on how, as a woman to trade the adoration of many men for the contempt (or some such appropriate word) of one. Marriage. Punch line. Dig.
Jen came down the aisle deal and began sobbing. So Yours Truly began to basically jumping jack with camera gear to lighten her up. When she was halfway down I turned back towards Jamal and said Jamal, you made Jen cry.
Highlights include:
finding a clump of faux hair on a pathway and telling the bonfirees that it was Alan's pubic hair that Liz shorn, practicing my tennis serve in terry bathrobe and heals with glass of scotch nearby, mucho.
Onwards.
Logical Love.