Saturday, November 13, 2004

Beth Dearest phoned me moments ago, from the computer lab at good ol' Parsons School of Deism, where she was sitting next to Mentor Jim. Upon hearing that BD was speaking to me he said to relay the message that I was in big trouble. For what, I queried. For not writing, for not calling came his basso profundo response. For. Having a sabbatical of sorts from all things grad, for having a moment of introspection in lieu of making - a commonplace must in art making, fercrissakes. Meeting up with Good W later today for some party wares as it's the b-days of both Liz and Polly and a party is afoot. Note to self: turn heat up on a more regular basis as the green plants are waning. Note to self: when the mood is of a certain nature keep the soundtrack peppy. Note to self: continue to bother the shit out of Holy Crap why Me Elliott Caplan to work with me as mentor #2, despite his wonderings if this is for money, for furthering of his fame, for coffee comp.

Compensatory Love.

ps: gleaned moments ago from Internet that the veep of this very land has been rushed or taken to hospital once again, for Shortness of breath. But he has a cold, the sniffles, so it may not be Arafat cause for alarm. Whew.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Firstly whilst shooting production shots of MacB (look, that'd be Macbeth to You), there was a fire alarm. Blaze, I wondered, a photo op of real-live flame, the lickings of orange and red that is escapable when it comes to my graphite brandishings. No. False alarm. While watching the non-burning building, housing, apparently, thousands of co-eds, as well as Leary Theatre, some co-eds thought it zany and unfettered of them to ditch their clothes so there was one nude male and one nude female. To the delight of the onlookers. I might here mention that this is a catholic (not as in universal) university. I might here also mention it's Oban time in my book, this moment, which always lends a special je ne sais quoi/feistiness/X Factor to epinw. Blaze. So there in MacB was some smoke effect(s) to accompany the Wyrd Sisters - one of the WS aided me in a moment of snack elusion when my bag of Smart Food brand over-cheesed popcorn ("dinner") landed sideways and was unable to enter my awaiting and disappointed hand, and mouth, and teeth crevices. Enter Wyrd Sister. After some magical wiggling I had my fucking Smart Food. She said Always call in a witch. To which I muttered Magick. Exeunt.
Shooting, shooting, shooting then this in Act V, Scene V, after death of Lady MacB. This quote haunted my own private moor and I reread it to Kennedy and have it now copied on one of the walls as it's the new digvid inspiration. Life's but a walking shadow, he sayeth thusly and following is most of the passage, fraught with phrases that have entered our mainstay category.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Dig. Digvid.
Moving bodies shapes in space and with the gray that hovers it's time to bring the show not on the road but au contraire in the rooms that smell of perfumes. To bring the lit refs up to the 19th C.

It Ove.
Lit Love.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Embarking shortly for a theatre-related gig. And You know how much I completely am enamoured of all things theatrical. As in stages, not emphatic speech, mercury buckets. Informed moments ago that not ONLY Beth Dearest but Inbal the Newlywed Israeli are jetting to the Middling City for holiday fun with Yours Truly. Sitting currently in the new newspaper digs to discover that the printer has had a snafu of sorts and there is no paper as of yet. And today is the day. The day that it miraculously appears from our minds and fingers out onto the streets, into the eagerly-awaiting hands of the masses. Emailed famed filmmaker Elliot Caplan earlier to inquire if he'd be my on-site idea masseuse/grad school advisor and to that he replied Holy crap, why me. To that I replied Because, fuckhhead. No, not really. Told him, oh, a plethora of reasons why. Just Why. Just Because.
Time to embark.
Love to Embark.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Minding my own business, as usual, awoke to the boisterous man at the front desk informing me that 400 cops were coming and they needed my room ASAP. Not for any bust of any sort. Just a convention moving in. And Yours Truly was being evicted from her seaside abode high above the large-scale folks walking back and forth the Myrtle Beach prime real estate. So I moved out and then did some art shooting that already has a fine fine title - Towards the Ocean. Shots made from the high parking ramp where I'd been docking my rented Chrysler cherry red convertible Sebring that in a flash would have one way way over any limit of speed or prudence.
So I says to my self, Nance I sez, You have not been on a beach in a year or more and why the hell not meander down there. So I did and then proceeded to sleep for the next three or so hours, scorching my face a bit which has now evolved into a tan = egads.
Heard from JW,Esq. today who informs me, as usual, that he hit a grand show and I did not. He saw Brian Wilson on the Smile Tour.
Back to chaos, back to the mountain that is the to-do list, the holy shit you had best do this NOW list, the emails, the calls. The past three days of beach and work and pals a hovering dream. Like the blissful dreams one can have only on an autumn beach.

Love Beach.