Very ensconced in music and libraries and now shouting !basta! to the bridged-over heavens of Pittsburgh, Reese, who I met and instantly bonded with over my gift to him of a1917 class tie from Cornell duringst my famed Estate Sale as I moved from my rented Victorian to my short stint as Ghetto Ghirl (and he had a busted jaw, wired tight), is heading to NZ. New Zealand to you non-vino heads. Joined his newsgroup and the correspondences I expect to roll in shortly, probably tapering off as it so often happens once one is ensconced then there. Drove like mad to various Middling City emporiums and ginmills to insert my Perfect initials onto football pools far and wide and will be waiting waiting to hear the glad tidings. Pools are all random so in choosing willingly I did so based on my fav colour - green. That equals that one team. From PA, which brings Me back to musings on Reese, broke free from PA for NZ. Class is like so underway and got the post posted and realized once I cut through the various hazes and such and flowerations that the readings were actually not so bad. But please, do not quote me on that. Or else. The song that one of my favoured humans was married to in Vegas is now playing on my iTunes and forever this song will make me think of that scenario, a chapel in Vegas, the non-screech of a needle dragged across vinyl, for shame, the onion-rich breath of a preacher, the click of a few bursted frames of film by the resident photographer, the ghost of journalistic me working on my story a few years ago, witnessing several marriages, still emotional despite the plastic, the dust, the absentia, the desert calling beyond the Strip, but a click and whirr and purr of the voice of Kristin Hersh singing Beestung and You know who You are there is no need to name. To flame. To shame. To lame. To aim.
Godammit, words are so fucking fun and satisfying.

Satisfying, fun, fucking Love.