Yesterday, conjured up the spirit of Sam Super B to blog.
Today back to the Perfect style that You know and You so enjoy.

How It Happened, According to Yours Truly.
There was a woman who met a man and they fooled around enough so that in time there was a pending baby and it was a problem but the woman was born without Original Sin and nobody understands that. Or any of this story's facts, for that matter, as they're mixed with fable and the default styles of translation and the retelling until the original is worn, less crisp.
So there's a meandering along and then labour pains. Water breaks while the woman is riding side saddle on the back of a donkey who is not pleased, who is being beaten along with a stick. The month is October and it is the Middle East.
They stop and out pops a baby and the baby, according to a prophecy, is the saviour of all people. There is a mysterious omen in the sky, a star with a tail, and word spreads, apparently, that something surreal/shattering has happened. Three kings find the couple months later - December - and they bring along camels, not the cigarettes, and gifts for the baby, like a shower of sorts. According to Kennedy the names of this trio are known and the names might have upwards of five syllables each.
Zoom ahead many years, to now, for example.
This birth is a baby is a man who is a founder of a philosophy that is interpreted for a long time and it, the philosophy, becomes a religion that becomes a far-reaching corporate interest whose h.q. is its own city within Rome, Italy.
This island of reinterpretation is within high walls and is full of breathtaking wealth and influence and its leader, the Pope, writes encyclicals that pronounce beliefs, interpreted belief, to its followers - and beyond. Missionaries, like door-to-door evangels, like Hispanic evangels who amplify their shouts of passionate belief out into a quiet neighborhood without regard, take it upon their believing shoulders to spread their reinterpretations.
According to lore the Pope knows the end of the world's date.
All the Popes have known this fact, revealed to the children of Fatima in visions, who smelled roses when the spirit of the Original Sinless woman appeared to them.
From a stable and a manger to a walled city, this is what transpired over thousands of years. What began as Buddha-like logic and love of peace has become a movement that has ripened beyond taste, use, intention of the founder.
This is Christmas, a time of rampant spending to show love for one another when, in fact, good deeds and aid and love should not only suffice but happen at all times.
And the music. Holiday music for this anniversary of the discovery of the Libran child Prince of Peace, light of lights, should be much better and possibly the only good one out there is by aforementioned Lennon.
Thus spaketh Perfect Me on this Holiday Matter.

Love Matters.

Most heart ache of ached, the season that has to be dig this experienced sans the other after all that time and now kapoof nothing not a card not a thing and what was all of that, a decade of wondering, of this and of that wasted, lost in a moment of honest reveal. A new season of wondering and waiting and new activity and not knowing the what is of the new but hoping and loving in a new light in a new way and what is the new locus. Thinking I don't trust I don't know but I do want to but what is it what is this what is this this season this place and time. This time of meaning full of things for others for other times and things that you do not have that you do not feel but that you do want and what would you do yes what would you do to have this that you want all the time all the place all the person now.

Love What.

'Tis the season to get cranky
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
'Tis the season to get tipsy
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Don we nowsville our peppy apparel
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Then we'll watch some blazing yule log
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAAH.

Just got off phone with thee Elliott Caplan who says, and I really really don't think he's blowing smoke up my arse, that he digs my digvids that I dumped on him via a nice, tidy dvd.
Tomorrow afternoon we meet up in the Middling City suburbs to talk shop. Then call it a wrap. Not rap. This is so shop talk.
Out of towners are descending upon the Middling City in droves, all looking for high times and misdemeanours and squeezing them in right now to the miasmic schedule is mandatory. Justy et al will be looking to score some jubilance this evening and I am hoping beyond reasonable hope that he et al are not thinking It's Pink Flamingo Time. But, then again, holiday time is the only time Yours Truly darkens that rotting doorstep.
Until then, until later, Yours Truly remains Your Favored, Perfect Nancy.

Love's Sweet Remains.

post script, post haste:
Jesus H. Christ (the season's reason) forgot to freakin' mention that I sent off the paper. The PAPER. The brilliant essay on what completely rocks about the photographs of Gillian Wearing, Brit photog of my certain age. Sent it e-off to the instructress who I'm sure is shopping it around to various scholarly pubs.
As in pages full of brilliance, not ginjoints, ferfucksakes.

Sure does not seem like just yesterday and there are no misty tears to swab away but holy guacamole the nephew becomes thirteen today. There is an infamous Polaroid of me holding brand new him in my leather jacket and we're studying each other, really looking. My Sharpied caption reads Jacob's first sniff of black leather.
I talked to him when he was in his mother so I believe he knew my voice right off. Helloooo, this is your Auntie speaking, I'd pronounce as if I were speaking down into the Grandest Canyon. His mother/sole sistah did not mind but my father sure did when he witnessed the pronouncing once, claiming I'd deafen his forthcoming grandchild.
The nephew was born (the night he came out my friend TMO and I showed up drunk as can be about 2AM after spendiing the evening at nearby Icon, a concert I shot, I believe it may have been Pigface... or KMFDM. But we unsuccessfully tried to convince the near-asleep security man at the side door that we should be allowed to meander up to the maternity level for a quick hello.) with a keen sense of awareness and humour and I always have loved him more than just about anyone I know or have met or am sure to meet.
Since the age of six I dragged his nephew ass off to concerts so that he could experience music (and Yours Truly) firsthand and to see the underbelly, the workings of something and understand it, have a place in it. I felt as a kid that we family members toodled off and attended things, many cultural things, but we were skimming along as spectators - there was no sense of Knowing. So the nephew knows rock shows - the bands he's met, the security guys, the promoters, the merch girlies, the other backstage stragglers.
He is not a jock but a PlayStation addict, a karate kicker, a musician who plays piano, guitar and trombone. These past few years I've been pushing the rock concept at him. What a horrible rock stage auntie I would be.
Thirteen, the precipice and very start of what is exciting, heavy, transformative about It.
To that beloved kid, to You, I say rock on - faster, stronger, with more humourous abandon.

More More Love.