And the Middling City crumbles further still.
Apparently the housing gendarmes who filter violent activity between nearby bad people and nearby decent people is fading out. Meaning. Yours Truly lives on the DMZ between Project Land and Working Class Land. Housing Cops are going bye-bye and allegedly during the summer they expect a blaze of activity, that the scene will be "busy." Heard on one MC radio program that two people were stabbed yesterday on Fulton Street en plain air and that'd be a stone's throw or so from where I blog.
Onwards.
Yesterday, while Judy Jetsoning out, saw four cop cars speeding westward (perhaps to scene du crime du jour) and in front of the pizza parlour a youngish guy watched the approaching cars and nervously wrapped his t-shirt, that he had removed and was holding, around his right fist as if getting ready for a throwdown.
Urban Pioneer Reality at its most real.
Then I went out to Middling City U to shoot another EC-produced event, this time featuring a man whose big thing is e-poetics. And he explained to sleepy students how poets working in this media hide some of their words within html code. And I thought What the hell, I like reading pomes pennyeach but who has that kind of wherewithall to be dragging an online pome's code into the light of day to read it in its entirety. Give me the word on the printed page, s'il vous plait.
He went on to say that Duncan (that'd be late great Robert Duncan), when he became himself a hotshot, would dictate to printers and publishers what font he wanted his work to appear, that he chose Times Roman for its spacing. First time I'd heard that and I find it rather suspect but oh well, let us run with it.
Today is a bad day for filming anything in the grayscape.
Time to gather the work to be delivered and disseminate images . . . and miles of smiles.

Love's Smile.

Latest in the cavalcade of hotshots photographed by Yours Truly was a hotshot from a certain Ivy League joint - this afternoon in the Middling City while said hotshot had a beetle crawling about his collar, unbeknownstingly. Hours afterward, whilst speaking to the person who had hired me for the gig - thee Elliott "GimmeAnEmmy" Caplan - I remarked on the progress (and perhaps even prowess, or prowling capabilities) of the bug. EC said he wanted to reach over and flick the dang-blamed thang. I also commented upon the fact that the man in my sights (i.e. subject) was gripping his venti Starbucks (swoon) paper cup like a shield, a prop, a signifier to such an extent I wanted to fling the goddamned thing more than the bug.
Now it is night and it is time to shoot video of things at night that you are accustomed to seeing during the daylight. My first recollection of the day for night for day or whatever phenom was when I found myself on a curious date of sorts in a large public garden at night and realizing how different nature or penned-in nature looks in the dark hours. Onwards. Today, in the garden store a man urged me to help him look for eggplants. Being ever-pleasant or rather always looking for a good blogpost and sensing one in this oversized odd man, I searched for young eggplant plants. And found him three, chatting all the while. He actually asked if my hair was a natural shade. Or, rather, he was going to pose that rather prying question until I bent over to fetch an eggplant young plant from a shelf and he saw that in sooth I am a happy natural light brunette with tinges of reddishness rather than faded primary red with scrapes of yellow faded into an interesting mélange of who can freakin' say. All thanks to beloved Jon who is in throes of working on his Music is Art Festival happening on the 11th and 12th in Allentown, a quadrant of the Middling City. Jon promises it will be one freakin' fab time with more artists, a collective of body challenging/punishing artists and more more more. Music by the usual suspects and then some more more more.
I explain to people quite frequently that my hair lies in the hands of Jon, that I like sitting down in his chair and tossing him all my trust and not really knowing what the hell I'll look like when I embark.

Love's Surprises.

Latest in the cavalcade of hotshots photographed by Yours Truly was a hotshot from a certain Ivy League joint - this afternoon in the Middling City while said hotshot had a beetle crawling about his collar, unbeknownstingly. Hours afterward, whilst speaking to the person who had hired me for the gig - thee Elliott "GimmeAnEmmy" Caplan - I remarked on the progress (and perhaps even prowess, or prowling capabilities) of the bug. EC said he wanted to reach over and flick the dang-blamed thang. I also commented upon the fact that the man in my sights (i.e. subject) was gripping his venti Starbucks (swoon) paper cup like a shield, a prop, a signifier to such an extent I wanted to fling the goddamned thing more than the bug.
Now it is night and it is time to shoot video of things at night that you are accustomed to seeing during the daylight. My first recollection of the day for night for day or whatever phenom was when I found myself on a curious date of sorts in a large public garden at night and realizing how different nature or penned-in nature looks in the dark hours. Onwards. Today, in the garden store a man urged me to help him look for eggplants. Being ever-pleasant or rather always looking for a good blogpost and sensing one in this oversized odd man, I searched for young eggplant plants. And found him three, chatting all the while. He actually asked if my hair was a natural shade. Or, rather, he was going to pose that rather prying question until I bent over to fetch an eggplant young plant from a shelf and he saw that in sooth I am a happy natural light brunette with tinges of reddishness rather than faded primary red with scrapes of yellow faded into an interesting mélange of who can freakin' say. All thanks to beloved Jon who is in throes of working on his Music is Art Festival happening on the 11th and 12th in Allentown, a quadrant of the Middling City. Jon promises it will be one freakin' fab time with more artists, a collective of body challenging/punishing artists and more more more. Music by the usual suspects and then some more more more.
I explain to people quite frequently that my hair lies in the hands of Jon, that I like sitting down in his chair and tossing him all my trust and not really knowing what the hell I'll look like when I embark.

Love's Surprises.

Was just, scant moments ago, delivered news most shocking and disturbing. Maybe even life-altering.
Over time Sharpies are, according to a colleague, as noxious to a cd as lead paint.
So, what does this mean in this Perfect World.
Well, in a petite nutshell I will tell You.
Come, realistically, September, month of new scholastic beginnings, Yours Truly will be placing all digital files currently on cd's - annotated with Sharpies fercrissakes - onto external harddrives. Conservatively, with a digital archive this size, it will take weeks. This is news one does not want to hear. That all your digital archive is quietly fading into oblivion. Allegedly another, mutual colleague, cannot open up cd's from the dawn of our collective digworld - roughly 1997.
I will never look at Sharpies the same way.
Sharpies, poison seepers.
So, I ask You, what are they doing to the hands of YT, when errant marks mark YT.

Sharpie Dubious Love.

5.30.05
Dearest Dave,
You know that I love you. I really, really do.
I loved you even when you got all hefty and you grew a beard, as some menfolk do, to hide that fact/expansion.
You may recall that I am the photog who, backstage three times to date, has shouted DAVE I LOVE YOU - YOU ROCK. Whilst flashing the ASL sign for I Love You.
It's me, Perfect Nance.
Now, about the new release.
Forgetting that I had it in my cd changer (and that I even had purchased the dang thang weeks ago) in my vehicle it played a song. Onwards to slight confusion. Looking down (ever cautiously as I am one safe fuckin' driver) at the car's hi-fi panel. Yes, cd is on. Not the radio. So WHY in blazes in Sting warbling a tune out of my hi-fi. And then it sadly hit me, Dearest Dave.
Please do not make any more singles whilst sounding like Sting. And please try to rock a bit harder as it makes me self-conscious in a way, that perhaps all my boy pals and boy colleagues were right, that I might be a geek for loving you so.
Love, Love, Love,
NJP

PS: Crit Love.