Today's theme: readjustment.
Changed JetBlue itineraries for rest of the ultimate semester resulting in no rising + attempting to shine at 4AM each bookish Monday to catch the 6 (not green line, as in subway, but actual hardcore 6AM flight out of the Middling City) en route to Parsons School of Non-Details. Learned, amongst other things today, that school starts at noon on Mondays, not a minute earlier. 12 - 9 = 3 hours to wend way from JFK to PSD.
More readjustment.
Shiney Apple sleeping destination was changed from sublet situation in the easterly twenties back to the beloved and familiar SoHo - i.e. Loft of Dorota et al. I am here now, wondering if I can muster up any more energy to do a bit more digvid tweaking. I think not. There is always tomorrow, with tomorrow's fresh eyes, tomorrow's turbo-powered café (heading straight to Ceçi-celà when the sun rears its drastic summer head), tomorrow's revamped badassness, tomorrow's free day status following meet-up with Mentor JR.
As I told a schoolmate in the elevator today Art is not a life or death situation - art is supposed to be fun, fercrissakes. Put that on your wisdom-rich wall calendar and smoke it.
I remain artful and oso much more.

Oso Love.

Well, one thing to look completely forward to this summer (besides looking at Modern's Friedlander retro) is the pending release of Johnny Depp in the Wonka remake - although he looks very peculiar, thanks to director Tim Burton. Did this movie need to be remade. I think not.
So Anita West is on 97 Rock blathering about the new release by Ringo Starr and that he looks fantastic. Colour me doubtful, about both.
Finished shooting a weekend of weddings - one in Erie, PA and one out in the exurbs. In Erie I learned some valuable things. Such as small Catholic colleges are not shy about commissioning grand stained glass windows, there's a small vintage smokeshop on State Street and that there's a private club on same called Marinator or some such thing - a place employing snippy bartenders who wish to make photogs drink from plastic cups, which I ixnayed. A real glass, puh-leez. I mean really. Hired helpers dig real glass, too.
Just back from a coffee/love fest with Allen and Kunji - a much-needed jolt of both.
So back to digvid edits, dad's day restaurant foray, more edits, more errands and then jetting off to school. New protractor, new shoes, new semester.
Hello anxiety.

Anxious Love.

Relevant and lighthearted theme du jour/blogposte:
Losing one's way, thematically/artistically/orientationally/intentionally.
Delivered a gig to Hyatt "Regency" in downtown Middling City, after basically missing correct left and heading into setup for the MC's weekly summertime Thursday in the Square and got giant pangs for shooting music and seeing the regulars. That's one way to lose one's way.
Then in the lobby I am waiting for appointment and am looking up at the tinted mirrors and eavesdropping like mad when I essentially walk into NYS Attorney General (no bars, no stars) Eliot Spitzer, who I've photographed before - a sharpie to be sure. That would be the orientational losing of way.
Then I am waiting for appointee and am outside her office and meander over to look at the samples of wedding cakes - different frosting options, before amusing myself by reading the MC News.
Then mere moments ago I open up mail to discover a sizable bill from the day You may recall when Yours Truly was completely and hopelessly LOST on the 407ETR up to the north until aided by a nice and large cop in a sedan - You know, the one who drew directions by drawing a rather long line with the number 407 underneath. The Gee, merci moment of that moment. So the bill for the lost condition of me that day - exiting, re-entering, heading ouest/west then est/east, exiting and re-entering (repeat a few times) totals $62.86. Not even kidding one tiny bit. $62.86. You can bet your OPP that phonecalls will be made, heads will like totally roll up there in Maple Country. Moral of all: do not get lost. Do not lose a way. Any way.
As for the art direction that is another matter, for that You must read and re-read between lines both short, long, longest.

Longest Love.

Ace Heat Manager Yours Truly here sitting amongst all sorts of paraphernalia and dehumidifying regalia to enable working at optimum conditions - sort of like an electronic venti coffee du jour from Starbucks, if you will. As the dehumidifier fills up the papers lie more flat, the computers sigh a sigh of relief, as I do.
Completely lost my last blogpost into cyberwherever last night/this morning and not sure what the hell happened but it basically recapped my experience at Music is Art, Jon and Robbie's music and art and curiosity extravaganza. Wended my way from Deb's home to MIA through sunstung and fried-food-outfitted masses, noting the item of the year at Allentown Art Fest appeared to be a curious copper bowl atop a 4' stick with some sort of glass globe incorporated in the design. I didn't get what it was other than whimsy. Whimsy on a stick. Deb suggested people loved it because it was affordable. Suppose she is right, a far cry from the overpriced, sofa-sized work on view. Kennedy asked for an "art" report and I had very little to report from my short wend: I did proffer up some details about a very hairy and surly-faced man sitting on top of one of those director chairs with extended legs, apparently guarding a display of small watercolors of flowers. Floral whimsy, made by a hairy, angry man.
At MIA saw many of the rock and roll crowd, some from the photo world and paid for a ticket to watch what I anticipated greatly inside the sideshow tent. Nope, not The Enigma, who I've shot to date thrice at Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. Word on the street, alongside the tent, was Enigma's wife was there, Cat Woman, tattooed with a tabby cat pattern over her entire body. From what I saw she was perhaps tattooed over 90% of her plump self, sans boob tattoos. What a pair - puzzled and kittified.
I was there to see the suspension team Jon had told me about and waited impatiently in the hot shade to see a woman with cinched waist and long dreads and three-inch hooks in either shoulder blade pretend to be stabbed, be carabinered and lifted into the air but not before the faux jealous lover (murderer) danced with her à la Last Dance With MaryJane. Wondered nearly aloud - was this crime pretense really necessary. My Perfect answer. Absolutely not. She was pushed to and fro and about ten minutes later I thought Well, now I can say I saw a woman hanging from two 3-inch hooks in her self. Onwards.
Last night dined under the grape chandelier at Chef's with Allen, Kunji, Laura. Saucey high times and then onwards to sip on beers regarding my most favoured view of the grain elevators from the foot of Hamburg Street. My holiday card tree now covered in lush green leaves and tall green grasses blowing nearly horizontal in the Buffalo River breeze. Cops motored by slowly, not bothering to bother us with our open containers, our Yeah Yeah Yeahs emanating from the golden Forester.
Told Laura today had a brief thought of driving solo to Boston today for the 50 Foot Wave (Kristin Hersh) and Pixies gig there but the seats left sucked and really, I do have a shitload of work to get done like right now.

Now like Love.

So here I find myself once again blogging on the blazingly quick machine in the Apple/Geek store/h.q.
Here to aquire external hard drive (that'd be h.d., to the uninitiated) to make more more more digvids - each nanosecond burns up memory like mad. Last night spoke to Beth as she was working hard on her art for today's viewing and explication rite at Parsons School of Disorg. All of a sudden I heard a screeech, a bang, and then she said Oh, Deb's cat just knocked over my art, gotta GO. Felt sad for her, nothing worse than forces of nature working against the ol' creative process. In Canada that would be pro-sess.
Just found another slammin' pair of summer in the city sandals, accidentally, of course.
Described them to Kunji as one part functional, one part girlie - parfait for traipsing about in the Shiney Apple in search of art and high times.
Speaking of such, been in communications with several Shiney Applites to tell them my ETA. And, NB, this is one week after the so-called residency at school. Due to a communication snafu Yours Truly is not there, is working hardly in the Middling City making art, finishing up gigs, weeding, and the like.
Just got email from and replied to Peter Brøtzmann who orders me to stay in touch, which I will certainly do as he's a keeper of magnanimous proportions.
Just also dropped Kennedy at airport as he's off to the Shiney Apple to see PB et al during the VisionFest.
The nice Apple store boy just fetched me my new h.d. - a $400 model holding 500 oodles of pixels and other digital video molecules. A fresh new h.d. for fresh new work.
A fresh new summer, a fresh new pair of gardens, a fresh new semester, and then - and then - a fresh new Master of Fine Arts and Universe degree. Come hell, high water, Oban, and more.

High water love.

Day of dual/duelling fests and heading shortly over to Jon's - the Music is Art affair, paralleled with an art show at Albright-Knocks that I saw yesterday that includes an overview of the work of Mark Freeland, Middling City bon vivant of sorts.
Had an art date with the niece yesterday and whisked her out of her suburban setting and headed to the aforementioned for meaningful meandering and lunch. During a break in lunch action we headed into the courtyard to climb on a fruity tree when Don Warfe appeared to not only tell us to get down but to wash our hands immediately as said tree was coated, apparently, in chems.
Meeting up with a few over in Fest 1 as long as the SPF holds out and thoughts keep involuntarily wavering over to the reality of Shiney Apple Reality heading my way in about a week.

SAR Love.

So there I was, perfectly documenting the race, the Corporate Challenge, for Middling City U in the swelteration and the good people under the tent gave Yours Truly a nice straw cowgirl hat for sunproofing. I asked Laura, who works at MCU, if, with my bitchin' shades I resembled Kid Rock. Her reply was a weak affirmative. Saddled with approximately 30-40 pounds of gear, trekking to the start, course and then finish lines I nearly faded out. Me + Heat = Bad. Memory drifted to the sun stroke I'd had in the Phillipines, when I hallucinated that I saw a man's head where the pig's should have been at a roast one beautiful evening. The daytime found me splashing in the South China Sea, and then hiding in the shade - with SPF a gazillion all the while. Then I nearly passed out in a bathroom but not before spotting one of the planet's largest cockroaches and then was put to bed for a day and a half in the bedroom of the family I stayed with, wealthy enough to have a generator-powered AC situation despite brownouts. And, once I drifted back to non-dream land, the fever dreamscape, I discovered the Qu'ran on her bedside table and read much of it. She, a Muslim, despite the sweltering Catholicism of the island Luzon, and the family she was in. Like many of the rooms of the wealthiest Filipinos, the walls were mahogany, restive mahogany left to its primal coloration, like the walls now of the room where I dream at the edge of the Middling City. Time for volunteer biz, to help Jon et al set up for Music Is Art Fest at the edge of Allentown's own, history-saddled fest.

Edgey Love.

So apparently, whilst attempting a way-rad stunt of sort, nephew careened off his bike and shattered his forearm and elbow, resulting in several plates and screws to keep it all - theoretically - together. Rushed to hospital to see his post-op self, armed with a gift bag full of mags and candy. One of the mags is all about skateboarding so I penned in a caveat about trying this out post-hosp.
As he drifted into a morphine dream he sweetly said Peace out, Auntie.
Time to rush off and shoot a bunch of ladies having tea at the presidential manor of Middling City's U's Simpson et al.

Elbow Love.

Let Us say that this shall be filed under H, for Hardy Freakin' Har.
Middling City U gig this noontime was to capture the likeness, steal the soul of one Senator Chuck Schumer (of GOFORIT Fame), weeks ago highlighted within epinw, Your source for Perfect news, advice, tidbits tantalizing and fraiche.
So Schumer, as is politco wont, is missing. Then he appears, and so does his crackerjack team. I know one member of the team quite well, we sat on an artsy committee aeons ago. So he gives me the ol' kissonthecheek and then says You know, Nance, I just told X that if Schumer gets sick, I'm breaking your camera. There is a moment's pause, a quizzical aura hovering over my head and a near violent one to boot as who in hell wants to hear that one's trade tool(s) is being threatened. It takes me a moment to realize he's wryly reffing the Hillary moment, the ol' Gripping the Podium shot. He said, Well now, I didn't choose sides. And on and on and then I said a few words. I mean really. Wasn't that about one hundred years ago, wasn't it news, wasn't it an elected official in my sights. Onwards.
Made art today, this fine AM before the gig, all shallow depth-of-field wispiness I cannot divulge too much of. But let us say it is Perfect, it Rocks. It is going to be shown in a gallery in the Shiney Apple on Fifth Avenue this fine, pending summer.
I pre-rest on my pre-set laurels.

Love of laurels.

Have an op to go to Lollapalloowhatever this summer and the big question is this: can Yours Truly dig on a two-day rock extravaganza sans camera. Think Who can I get some creds from to shoot it so at least I'm not another sweaty pedestrian. Thinking still.
So art is afoot and it goes well, need to make several days to edit them all but there are actual story boards to remember what's on all the tapes.
Yesterday shot a wedding which was a good time, knew a lot of the guests so it made it more breezy than not and engaged in a conversation with two about the differences between the sexes - processing of info and all.
Steve S cornered me at some point, as he does, to ask a shitload of prodding questions and I know he means well but allright already I say to that.
Questions about where I'm on the map, so to speak.

Speaking of Love.

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.

Gee, that was fun.
According to my meager and somewhat impressionistic calculations I think it just took me nearly two hours to book my tix for jetting to and fro this fine summer to get my Perfect self to school. Sort of like taking the cheese bus but a whole lot more expensive than school taxes, nobody is yelling their stinkin' head off in the aisle (well, okay sometimes the wailing of infants - cringe - happens upon lift-off and lift-down), and in lieu of a crotchety bus driver there is a whole ensemble of perky staffers, armed with strong arms to lift baggage snacks and drink items. And, mid-June, I'm officially over 100 super-sonic-bonus points and can traverse off to a swell spot of my choosing and at this moment I just might head to the furthest destination sight unseen but I've probably been there and it's probably LA or SF. Tokyo would be nice, been craving the fruity dry air scent of that island, the food that surprises you, the wack juxtapositions of things, the flora. JetBlue doesn't fly left of Cali.
Shot a wedding today and informed the couple that when the photog gets misty at a wedding it is good luck. And that quippitude is bound to end up on the special epinw calendar, chock full of wizened words, helpful hints and good old-fashioned snark. It has to be good luck if the core of the day, oh, you know, the sentiment of these two people, creeps down their bodies, across the floor, up your leg and into your brain, rendering things slightly swirly for a few moments. I mean, really, I've seen it all. All. Seen. All. And that's just the backstage antics at rock gigs. Then the weddings. All. The only snag du jour was the seemingly benign priest cornering me after all was said, done and official to tell me that basically I'd thrown his whole gig off course as I had gotten too close to a moment onstage. I feel bad for individuals at times like those, having to divert anger and negativity towards someone who they deem their easiest mark. In lieu of Uhh, excuse me Father Malarkey, don't you have something better to do like administer to the bereft instead of invading my time with your fear of losing one centimeter of control over your regimented scene (and keep your hands off the kids), it was Well, it was important to the bride and groom to get a shot of that and I was quite quick about it.
Then drove to a nearby exurb (you know the one, where everyone is wearing a blank smile, walks at half-speed and is wearing sensible shoes) to purchase, on behalf of Yours Truly and Cheryl and Liz, a gift for the pending baby of Jen and Jamal. I decided to call Jen from the sto - JEN, I shouted, I'm in a gift store, did it come out yet. Do you know what it is. So I have to buy yellows and greens. It is imminent. Jen sweet Jen is about to be a mom and I forgot to ask if Jamal still has the scruffity beard he had in the winter as I think his new child should see him at his best and that beard is not included. Jen suggested instead of posting the gifts that I hand deliver them. I considered. Drive to Boston. New baby. School beginning any second. Maybe pile.

Maybe love.

This is a stilled moment from a brainy concept I had that never really got past the "TheArtistIsFuckingAboutWithAConceptThatMayNeitherSeeTheLightOfDayNorOtherSubjets - NorEspeciallyBreathlessAndEnthusedStrangersInGallery" stage. Let us just say that its title could be Sing Into My Hairbrush.
Models were lined up. Concept was so light-tight. Well, crap, I'd best not give it all away lest I'm trolling for said concepts later this art-making cycle.
Have been having odd dreams where I'm being visited or am visiting with a parade of people who I know who have drifted away. Last night I saw Chaz and we hung out for a while and it was like the heady and adrenalized and blatanly strange old days.
So where did Laura's jpeg escape to, the one of the man in Central Park lurking behind me and my digvid camera. Buzznet (below on a past epinw post), so not working with me at this moment.
Oh, note to self:
Remember that on warm days driving around with too many layers, not opening up window for fresh air, and not turning AC on high enough results in snappiness with unwitting photo subject who is not only awkwardly self-conscious but just trying to break the ol' photo ice. Then all improved, went swimmingly, &c.

Swimming in Love.

Mere moments ago Yours Truly was trying to Perfect her mind even further by listening to a scientific radio program about the space program. Now, all due respect to my colleagues and full range of pals who dig the big S as in science and all the engineers and rocket boosters. However. After giving it about a good twenty minute college try I was like so done with it. Onwards to Daft Punk I say.
Having what I love to call a ping-pong day - suburbs, city, suburbs, beach in suburbs (for a photo shoot fercrissakes, really), city, suburbs and - finally - city for some vino with Liz.
Back to Middling City U deadlines fast and deep.

Deep deeper love.

Late morning, today, outside the big box store, you know, the one that chokes you with the aroma of popcorn when you enter and where in HELL are their greeters of yore, or is that another box store, a man gave me a choice. Are you running a cat clinic or are you a crazy cat lady, I bet you're not a crazy cat lady. Oh, I said, I am the crazy cat lady of my neighborhood, I feed all the cats. Then I went on to tell him how Extra is the original cat, how he's had shots, is neutered, and the rest are all transients, as the man smiled said an odd Thanks and turned quickly towards his car, stating weakly that he, too, was some sort of cat lady.
Just weeded and dropped some perennial seeds in a flurry as it's time to hit the road again and the sun is for seedlings, not for Yours Truly.

Seeds of Love.

About to embark out to Middling City U to shoot the difficult donor wall, a respendent and very reflective surfaced creation that necessitates Yours Truly shooting from behind dark fabric.
Saw several noise bands last evening with Kennedy at Matt Kantar's joint, Kitchen Distribution, a warehouse at the terminus of Auburn just a quarter's toss from the toll booths where now an additional quarter is charged to bring the toll for the ol' Niagara Extension up to 75¢. Scott's band - Caustic Solution (another clever as hell band name) played first and were truly the best, followed by noisemakers from Rochester and some from points beyond. The bricks quite possibly are still reverberating, I'm sure the foundation is a little weaker for the sonic wear and tear.
Yesterday, driving away from photo lab spotted a young girl with snow shovel, already this season an odd sight but she was shovelling out her home's front hallway. Glancing towards the open door I could see another person with another shovel. Happy to report I've never had to shovel out my hallway.
Came up with, in a dream yesterday, the way to show my digvid work this summer at the thesis show. A self- contained enviro of semi-darkness.
Off to donor wall shooting.

Shoot Love.