Just completed as in like so two hours ago the Coronation of Middling City U's newest baddest prez, John Simpson. Lots of my signature people looking human moments, looking ecstatic in bursts. Two nights of grazing on party food, those mysterious cheesey nuggets. Found Laura amidst all today's chaos and invited her to join me alongside one of the tables laden with crudites out the wazoo.
And just back from Philly yesterday, several days of walking through a small town, emptying (with assistance from Bill, Kennedy's bestest pal) a bottle of Oban, and best of all filming for art's sake. Just wrote to JR to inform him of such.
Onwards now to points ever beyonder.
Beyond Love.

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.

Today I came out into the world. So therefore a bunch of us met up at the Middling City's most eldest of juicejoints, Ulrich's, for revelry's sake. Frosting, cake, gifts, singing, dancing to leder-hosed music, rat scampering quietly around a corner out of the corner of my eye, the debate raging overhead for a portion, more scotch, more dance, more frosting, cards, laughing with head tipped back. Good times were had by Yours Truly, most importantly. Then morning rolled around and it was full-throttle work all day, John Lennon's day.
Today a crisp apple day and, as is my custom, I called my mother who sprung me to discover my father, the other third of the equation, must have been online so no Hello at the exact minute - 2:01PM. Blogging now in my studio/live space getting well wisher calls and emails as the Hispanic evangels rock on for the almighty mightily and I work on various projects before ultimately heading to Kennedy's where I have a huge desire to bake sweet potatoes stuffed with crab or lobster. Tomorrow we jet off to another city for a while.
Older, wiser, stronger, faster, that's what I just told Justy.
Life might be for the living but birthdays are for the birthed.

Nascent Love.