Yours Truly is planning to post this day's blogpost as parts A & B.
Post A will be the before, so to speak, and B later in this day.
What is this day, You might wander as you wonder.
A:
Today is the day that X finally - finally - not only picks up his flotsam and jetsom that have been hunkering in the far reaches of my home, but signs off on the deed. As well as the MIA third party who was still on the deed despite the fauxfact that X told me that this thirdly person was off the deed years ago. So for the last how long (Deb and Kennedy would probably know better than Yours Truly who does not want to succumb to the reality that this has been dragging along for two years, and this final stage for three months) an orchestration of concerns, emails, lawyerly conversations, moola, times, movings, groovings.
An interesting cast of characters will be on the scene (including my lawyer, Intrepid Tom) planned for early afternoon: several have referred to all this as having the potential of being a Jerry Springerlike event.
Hope it's more Here's your hat what's your hurry than A flurry of fury, and tossed items.
As I hand off the (extortion) money to X I would like to say
Here you go. . . now please go away.
Cheryl advised more snark, (I did invite her to come and videotape this moment, thinking it'd be a grand project).

Legal extricational love.


B:
Things are wrapped up. MIA and X showed up, as did Lawyer Tom, Kennedy, and Steve the Bouncer. Things did wrap up after things seemed heated for a moment. Then there was a flurry of signing (not singing, repeat, not singing) and then the removal of objets under vigilance.
It is done.

Rarity to follow.
I admit that at this juncture I was so not minding my own business and this ref goes back to April when I was participating/performing for Urban Epiphany, I think the fourth annual, and RD Pohl was amongst those in attendance. So I read some new pomes pennyeach (by YT of course) and each writer is given a slot of two minutes and, like in the digvid world, You say two minutes all the time, two minutes is like the amount of time it took for coffee from the barista, the time at a red traffic light and other, urbane situs.
So I read two minutes and I recall that I had blustered into the auditorium, overly-caffeinated and in a general state of grad student flux and freak-out. Afterwards, RD Pohl, who edits poetry for the Middling City Snooze, amongst others, came up to say in a nutshell Hey, dug them words, &C. Pohl said to send him some fine specimens and I, in my usual people-pleasing fashion, said something to the effect of Abso-freakin-lutely.
Months strolled by. I was not a grad student in a state of flux any longer but had moved on to newer types of flux and freak-outs of a generalized grownup sort.
So last week I decide I should email two to Editor Pohl. Two - Valentine. and Believe.
Upon receiving them EP calls excitedly to do various things:
-tell me that the poems are great
-tell me that both are going to be published
-tell me that the MCNews pays for publication of pomework
-tell me that above has never printed two by one in two consecutive months but one is timely for V-Day, one timely for the year anniversary of tragic death of Creeley
-tell me that he can't believe I was holding out on him for decades.
I returned his call and did not tell him that I was once a rabid public pomereader, an organizer of poetry readings at UB and via my Writers Cramp Series that I ran with Paul T. Hogan.
So words are coming forth on a printed page and although I have imbued myself in online work, reading, blogging since It happened, there is still beauty in/on printed pages.

Love, beautiful in both online and printed versions.

In the midst of what I now refer to as Asphalt Planet, the suburbs outside Middling City, where driving is de rigeur and the landscape is all about shopping, trees in smatters.
En route to the morning gig saw what appeared to be a highly disgruntled hired hand for Liberty Tax Services, in full Lady Liberty neoprene regalia, heading away from her/his post at the busy corner a stone's throw from the expressway, heading down an embankment, torch low.
I feigned enthusing, beeping my horn madly, so Lady Liberty would cheer up. And she did, turning and raising the torch at me in a commuter-worthy salute. Bartholdi shone down upon the moment.
Listening to Canadian radio the young announcer announced that yesterday, the country's national election day, was the saddest in a very long time – much like the aghast feeling when the current president of the US (you know, the one mucking up all foreign relations save a few, the overnetworked rube) allegedly won here in the lower 48 +2 – as now their gov is the big C.
Kennedy and I saw that new Pocahontas movie and I forgot to sing Neil's (as in second-fav Neil love, Young) song of same name. Actually, this movie has the forgettable title The New World and I imagine that its Euro title will have more poesie about it. Jewel's cousin, the femme of same last name (Kircher) and complicated first name beginning with Q, did a fine job of being beautiful in deerskin. Not so much later in gingham and such. I would not know Colin Farrell if he literally bit Yours Truly on mine arse and I found myself cringing at his mutant eyebrows and could not get the horrific thought of Scott Stapp formerly of Creed out of my mind. He also did a fine job of reminding YT of her college pal David Coleman, another introspector.
Time to burn a cd of primo images and drop and dash and more business as usual.

Love, usually.