Perhaps the majormost pinnacle of things that have happened this summer is the singing of Dream Weaver, with Luke, the drunk midget, last night during my foray to (what was it called) Wanda's, Wilma's, Wilhemina's, with Justin. I did not remember that the song rambles on at moments, nearly spoken word-style, and realized that it's the chorus that I dig so completely. All that other filler of words about whatever, astral plane references. Higher planes. Planes, planes, planes. Summer not of Love but of Planes.
The midget, I felt, was not trying hard enough. Was it the language barrier. He is Chinese and we were deep in the bowels of China Town. Was it his blood-alcohol levels. Was it stage fright. Was it a madcap independent streak that flies in the face of karaoke law and order.
And this all is for yet another short (no pun intended, for real) story, a collection, of stories about midgets.
Last night, in the midst of fabricating/creating an artist statement, a short fiction piece sprung forth, a story about M called The Tell. It's about 500 words and I'm very happy with it, thus far.
Met Dorota for lunch today at the usual joint and as we were leaving she recalled a shoe sale on Fifth. Where was the question, exactly where. I asked What, you are a Shoe Girl, how is this not emblazoned onto your consciousness.
We found said sale. And what did I find but an Italian pair of sky blue jobbers that are rather complicated.
Sky Blue Shoe Love.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Nothing like a few grand Middling City gigs, late-night conversation with Academie Guru, a select PJHarvey song and a little class skipping to raise one's spirits and reinvigorate the head. Told JR it's been weeks, three, to be exact, since I fondled the digvid camera. And here I hear the voice of Kennedy, half-growling/half-groaning And this is art school. Yes, where is the art. So a break to find art, again.
Reading a book about experiencing art and just garbage picked a passage about John Cage and Robert Rauschenberg, specifically RR's White Canvases. Cage wrote that these paintings were Airports for particles of dust and shadows that are in the environment.
Your assignment: read that over, twice. Then have coffee. Or Oban.
Ron of KY wrote of trying to wrangle some Oban out of a KY situation and though I was lost in the nuances of it I admired his wherewithall to at least try some quality booze acquisition in that bourbon-soaked region of those collectively known to Yours Truly as Team B.
As the plume poppies continue to make a pergola without my assistance, and the bee balm lists after bee visits, and the moon flowers push up the brick house, I do my own thing.
Love Thing.
Nothing like a few grand Middling City gigs, late-night conversation with Academie Guru, a select PJHarvey song and a little class skipping to raise one's spirits and reinvigorate the head. Told JR it's been weeks, three, to be exact, since I fondled the digvid camera. And here I hear the voice of Kennedy, half-growling/half-groaning And this is art school. Yes, where is the art. So a break to find art, again.
Reading a book about experiencing art and just garbage picked a passage about John Cage and Robert Rauschengerg, specifically RR's White Canvases. Cage wrote that these paintings were Airports for particles of dust and shadows that are in the environment.
Your assignment: read that over, twice. Then have coffee. Or Oban.
Ron of KY wrote of trying to wrangle some Oban out of a KY situation and though I was lost in the nuances of it I admired his wherewithall to at least try some quality booze acquisition in that bourbon-soaked region of those collectively known to Yours Truly as Team B.
As the plume poppies continue to make a pergola without my assistance, and the bee balm lists after bee visits, and the moon flowers push up the brick house, I do my own thing.
Love Thing.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Monday, August 02, 2004
Minding nobody's business but my absolute own I arrived at Middling City JetPort to discover that my plane was to be one hour late not only due to terroristic possibilities in the Shiny Apple (the runways were closed last evening, the nice pilot told us), but to a missing hunk of rubber on one of the plane's wheels.
So time for not a snooze but a small joe.
And then I nearly missed said flight when, paying attention to pilot and his timely announcement that changing a plane's tire takes a good 30 or so minutes (fun fact!), I gave myself half an hour to do above. When I rounded the corner 25 or so minutes later all my planemates had vanished and Steve (the JetBlue guy who knows me from my 2x/week stint at his counter) said he was on the verge of worrying wholeheartedly about my whereabouts and paging me. I was nearly one of those MIA travelers. The ones that have their names boomed through the echoing spaces of the airport and you ponder Who in HELL are THEY that they get a special ComeOnDown and where in HELL are they, anyhow. And now I know. It's due to following instructions/orders/directives. And this drove home the fact that the flying world is an amorphous blob of a world.
Arriving in the SA acquired the day's Post to learn that a tiger had escaped a circus and did his own share of terrorizing, causing some unfortunate and extreme injuries to a femme cop in Brooklyn.
I had just regaled Kennedy's dogs with a short tale about alligators escaping in the city and how tigers are usually left alone in apartments and feed upon raw chicken meat that is tossed through apartment doors opened a mere crack.
Terrorizing humans teaching the animals how to do same.
Terrorized Love.