Tuesday, August 23, 2005

According to my epinw Blogger dashboard this is post 912 - meaning Sunday, when last I posted, I could have made a deal (grand, big, done) about the previous number.
But I did not.
In mere moments I will be in a car for a long while as today is the day Kennedy and I et al are heading north for a few. And therein lies the sad news for You for today. I believe wi-fi molecules will evade me this sojourn but You know intrepid Yours Truly - ever dousing-sticking my Perfect way towards technology, geekdom, access.
I will look.
I may blog.
Today for certain JR should have the final tiny slice of the thesis documentary pie in his mentor hands, widening the 3-ring (no, not circus) binder to add the slides I had made over at struggling Campos (mad props to their slides-from-jpegs capabilities - again, technology rocks) and a page of follow-along notes.
Wilderness. Naturally (literally, figuratively, sensationally) thoughts turn to other outdoorsy moments: encounters with wild animals, strange ways of cooking, unrelenting Nature and its practices.
Speaking of such, Brucey informed me I need to work harder. Harder, I asked, how so. In art matters he answered. Work harder - More Art Now.
Time to move along the northerly path of Fate, rimmed with wildflowers, berries and mushrooms that could be poison, whispers of scared small animals, an occasional danger-fueled and speeding car.

Love of the North.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Seems one of mine own photo bros. signed me up as a judge for a photo contest in November and the p.r. lady at the venue has been referring to it as not only a Low rent contest, but a low rent judging gig. Gives me pause.
Speaking of pauses.
This is the day that the lifeforce (just the fact that being happens) misconstrued as God in the minds of some and molded into varying righteous incarnations took a day of rest. Rest. Is for the wicked, as the saying might go. You see, this blogpost is mired in the quest - and recognition at the futility of such a quest - for accuracy. Idle hands doing idle things. Rest not on Your laurels. Rest not on the pause button and subsequent paperish accomplishments in the form of degrees and focuses.
On this day of rest Yours Truly mere moments ago channeled her former go-go self and worked the final nonrest-induced kinks in the back to Le Tigre's On the Verge.
John Irving, now there is a man. Handsome, lives in TO, writes like nobody's business.
His newest one, Until I Find You, has a prequote:

What we, or at any rate what I, refer to confidently as memory - meaning a moment, a scene, a fact that has been subjected to a fixative and thereby rescued from oblivion - is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling. Too many conflicting emotional interests are involved for life ever to be wholly acceptable, and possibly it is the work of the storyteller to rearrange things so that they conform to this end. In any case, in talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.
-William Maxwell, So Long, See You Tomorrow.

On the subject of lies, or changing and fictive and un-fixed (in photo sense as being unfixed and impermanent) moments.
That I will ever get to Tattoo Don's with one former kid neighbor who I saw at last night's nuptials, that he can get me in somehow some Monday or Tuesday night to get the small post-degree self-gift. This will never happen.


Going away with Kennedy et al for a spell and was looking for a mid-sized sketch book to go along with the excellent new graphite. Find a fab Italian leather book I've had and flipped through. To the non-cognoscenti: when choosing a sketch book size and page color and tooth are important as well as what is already in the book, as people flip through without asking, with abandon. So you look to see what the pages are holding. So this book I recall drawing and liking outcomes and ripping out a few pages. But amongst the waiting blank space was a small note from the X - about permanence and such, tucked up into a corner in that odd and small hand. It is too ironic to discard and now the book beckons to overcome such fallacy.

Fallacious Love.