So there Yours Truly is, truly, minding her own perfect business.
Let us regale in the present tense, for dramatic effect. As dramatic, shall we say, as Nor'Easterly Blazing Tree Glory.
I am waiting for Scott, for a so-called band meeting for our excellent-to-be band, Knife Call. We have all, as I have written previously, together except for my musical contribution. So we are meeting to view and review some software for digmusicmaking.
Scott is late. Scott is a real musician so time is never a critical factor for him, for his planning.
While I wait I talk to Jeremy, one of my favoured bar people.
I note that across the way, a mere, oh, ten feet away, is a person I worked with at the Middling City alternapaper. He was the art guy. I was the photo gal. He was there maybe a year or so. I was there for fifteen. He's a Brit, he likes to be in his cups. He comes over, normal sort of socializing behaviour. We converse for a while, well, until my so-called bandmate, errant and time-shrugging Scott, arrives. Cupman tells me that he is back in the MC for work, that he's actually been gone, in that city that just won that hardball thing, for a few years and will be a regular feature, assuming all goes swimmingly and such.
So, now that my bandmate is here I pronounce we are about to conduct a meeting, waving over at a table nearby with requisite and handy outlet. Cue to end convo. Cut to end of convo.
The former co-worker says to Perfect me this, thusly, trepidatiously:
You know, Nancy, you were one of the people I was really dreading seeing back in this city. I am flabbergasted as I abso-freakin-lootly didn't relate to how he described my c-word attitude towards him at several social functions. I attributed it to perhaps his paranoia.
But then, today, I recalled:
Cupman was at one of my truly delicious fetes and he became quite very amazingly unruly and I recall sort of booting him out. This was several years ago and I think the kickout scene may have involved broken glass, flames, skullduggery.
Anyhow, mystery solved, sort of.
But, really, how could anyone in their right mind loathe seeing Yours Truly, belle of every single ball and then some.

Love belle love ball.

An uncensored glimpse into conceptions of painters known, studied and/or admired by Yours Truly. Or why YT usually prefers the company, conversation and art of photogs.
Painters are a quirky bunch and are manytimes planted stubbornly on the introverted quadrant of the chart of personalities that I am looking at right this very instant, (well a representation of same) scrawled on a shabby piece of paper outlining how me and one of my X's were never going to work out (and, by golly, he was like so right) as I was in one quadrant, he in the other. I see that he, I forgot this, put me in the same quadrant as Bill Clinton. I am good with that. I think, looking at this scrawl, he put himself in a box with Tolkien. Or maybe that is John Wolffer. Who in hell is John Wolffer.
Anyhoo.
Painters fret too much. Whereas a photog, or a group of photogs, gets down/off on chaos, good old-fashioned adrenaline, extreme physical feats and geeking on equipment, painters are all into organizing studios, getting the light right, nay, perfect, being solo, being in control, making just the right swerve. And for all this Fret there are so few grand painters, those whose canvases or boards whap you upside the head.
Photography just simply rocks.
So, why am I jurying a painting show in January.
Well, I will tell You.
A painter thought I'd, as a photog, be a good judge of what sucks and what does not.
I said I am honoured.
And, really, I am.
Perhaps during the opening reception, amidst all the cheese cubes and white wine in plastic cup swilling, I will expound further upon my Painter v. Photographer special thoughts.
Until then.

Cheese cubes of love.

Breezing about on the ol' PowerBook I chanced upon this image and Yours Truly cannot at all recall if this has been posted before and if it has not then why not and so then here it is in all its ironic glory. This is from a pow-wow, a real freakin' pow-wow-wow, outside the Middling City in some hillock-strewn landscape and this image post is inspired by the NPR story today deriding fry bread, mainstay of Native Americans, focus group of pow-wows. In this NPR snippet of life I learned that frybread is so not a native Native dish, but a culinary/nutritional disaster made from surplus ingredients handed over to the natives by the government of this country. Remember, do You remember, the newsbits about twenty or whatever years ago that crack was the white man government ploy to kill off the inner-city yutes of colour. Well, Yours Truly is reading between earnest NPR docket lines and seeing a ploy to harm the natives who are now 70% diabetic, about same rate for obesity and frybread has a lot to do with this. Now, look at this image. The bear has no eyes, they are dried slits for the bear is deader than a proverbial doorknob.

Proverbial Love.

Minding my own business, driving back to the home office hovel, had a conflation of visual imagery, a collage of sorts that was delightfully confusing. Such a bonus to one who slings not hash but images, in this over-imaged universe - a virtual sea of sights.
Driving down one Middling City avenue, Jefferson, to be exact, I look up to see a set of those iconic golden arches. As we all know the season is autumn and Halloween is pressing upon our sensibilities. I look to the left and see two women exiting a building, one woman in a golden pirate hat. At second glance I realize that she is exiting an ancient church, that her pirate's hat is, in actuality, a Sunday chapeau.

Misconstrued visuals Love.