The
site
is
finally,
repeat,
finally,
up and running.
Run and see.
So I've been a faithful blogger via Blogger since 2001, made a mandatory Parsons School of Design website via the horrid DreamWeaver, and now - now - have finally made a real website that may be administered by Yours Truly.

Administration of Love.

* This just in, image at left.
Shown is one disingenuous person, one person caught up in a rather surreal moment knowing that she's meeting The Man, repping tape as red as his necktie resulting in over half the refugees of Hurricane Katrina still being displaced.
George Bush has visited (I imagine at this moment he's jetted out, maybe even back to Maine) New Orleans on the anniversary of the natural disaster that killed 1700 people. He had breakfast, visited sites, he posed for photos, he promised things.
This exchange was reported by BBC:

As the president walked into the restaurant, waitress Joyce Labruzzo asked: "Mr President, are you going to turn your back on me?"

"No ma'am, not again," he replied to laughter.

This acknowledgement of lack of Help requires some spin, I'd imagine.
And laughter.
Would that be Omigosh, we're in the international spotlight uncomfortable laughter.

To be filed under the numeral one, as in One More Reason to Love the Internet System.
One of my most beloved campers from days of yore up over in the corner of Maine just found me on the internet and all signs point to the fact that she seems to be her same, rock-loving, word-playing self. She's 28 now, and I think she was about 8 when she first came to the summer camp and hung with me in my art building and I recall that she didn't like to do much else of the camp activities and I told the camp foundress, my pal Big Nancy, that I liked having AnnMarie/Cougar (at that time) hanging about. So she stayed and came back to camp long after the cut-off age of 12.
I was at camp ten years, I think she might have had nearly the same run.
Yesterday should be filed under D, as in Dang, THIS was One Miserable Day.
Because of a snafu here, a snafu there, created by the mishaps of others, Yours Truly was rushing much of the day in a bedraggled fashion - fixing snaf, altering u.
One wondrous thing witnessed this past weekend was the girl of honour at a Bat Mitzvah wormin' in her little black cocktail dress across the dancefloor not once - but twice. She wormed well, and did not make a spectacle of herself as she did such. She was the only teen that attempted this old school maneuver and it was impressive.
Off shortly to make a formal and glowing portrait of the president of a college for all the world to see. As Jackie DeShannon might warble What the world needs now is photos, more photos, it's the only thing that there's just too little of.

Too Little Love.

woah nancy, you DID blog the BR. i'll pass on the mv/ee.
This is what Eremite (aka Mo' Jiggs) wrote back upon seeing The Bummer Road (translated, curiously, with mysterious nods to illusory tactics, perhaps, as la route de déception by Babel Fish just seconds ago) had been blogged by Yours Truly.
In mere hours the fun-loving band Sloan plays that Middling City drunkfest aka Thursday at the Square which has, concurrently, inspired legions of motorcyclists to congregate downtown and terrorize one and all with their loud pipes that they believe save lives. I think a better plan would be to share the road wisely with motorists as I've witnessed this summer some incredible, irresponsible motorcyclist weaving and bobbing amongst vehicles doing about 55.
Forgot to note this past Sunday Westfield, NY was a destination for a piece for the Shiney Happy Mag and took the scenicest way down, stopping along the way at The Rez for some petrol and did truly marvel at a $6.99 lighter shaped perfectly as a miniature double-barreled shotgun.
With dual flames, bien sur.
While lunching in the beloved, vintage diner of the town I read the local (downturn of voice) daily and how a fugitive of prowess as of late had been spotted in the town. They did not, curiously, run a photo of said fugitive which I found rather interesting as if townspeople spotted a man who they did not happen to know from the diner, from the watering hole, wherever, how could they accurately do some fingering.
On the same topic here's a short tale of fingering.
A pal reported that his very backroads pal was surrounded, upon leaving a WalMart conveniently located in the midst of what some cityfolk might term Nowhere, by scads of troopers. A WalMart shopper, perhaps even a greeter (for we know they are all probably, safe to say, senile), fingered the pal of the pal. Incorrectly.
Moral:
Finger only with resolve and, if possible, consult newspaper file photos.

Fingering Love.

* This just in, added for erudition's sake.
One embedded blogpost image shows Bucky, the fugitive.
One embedded blogpost image shows Bucky, the mascot.
Lest you encounter a shadowy, becapped, strutting figure.

Here They are.
Ladies and Gentlemen, hippies and dog lovers, free jazz associates, and anarchic genre benders.
The Bummer Road.
Why now, as they played the Middling City oh but exactly three weeks ago during the MC's most hottest of a slew of days that inspired Yours Truly to purchase a/c for their stay.
As Mo' Jiggs, as pictured in scarlet, asked for a quick batch for a mag that will be featuring musings on their musings. I emailed Mo' Jiggs, as pictured in - yes - Birks, a selection of eight. Last time they played the MC some photos of them by YT appeared on that bountiful blog/site controlled by Thurston.
Note the dog, beloved Zuma, who has never given my hand a chomp.
Today, after a few gigs at MCU I wended to a bookstore and purchased one of those Dummies books to help someone land a 747 of sorts but could not offer up much help as the password for the unloosing of the machine's every bits and bytes could not be recalled by its newbie owner.
Well, YT stated, I can't do a thing.
If it ain't got that swing.
If it ain't got that admin password issue all under control.
And off I faded into the heavily-aired afternoon.

Heavy, airy Love.

Yours Truly is taking a long shot here. You may recall that I am not only a super-secret dart player of Zen proportions, but a keen shooter with both gun and camera. Recall that the FBI asked if I may have an interest in joining up with them after indulging in their for-the-media shoot-a-thon with guns of all ilks. So when I am taking a clichéd long shot, it is going, probably, to be dead on.
So here is an image of something blue, obviously a fishy member of the animal kingdom, a swimming part of Nature.
You are terrified of it, as I was. It is something that Literal Harold just informed me of, yet another frightening image supplied by a pal. And I am even more perplexed that after my decade of being the Arts and Crafts teacher at for The Summer Camp up in the corner of Maine, replete with nights off spent on the coast, and a very informative and chefly beau there, that YT never - ever - heard of this beast, this mola mola. I doubted Literal Harold and ran to Wikipedia to just see if LH was fabricating this creature that, allegedly, propels itself into the air, out of the water, to rid itself of barnacles.
It eats jellyfish. It is a sunfish. It likes to be alone.

From Wikipedia:
Breaching has also been observed. This is when sunfish jump out of the water as whales sometimes do. They are reported to jump up to ten feet out of the water. This is probably done to dislodge the large number of parasites on their body. Molas also seek drifting kelp in search of small fish to remove their abundant parasites.

Thinking of a nice, solid parallel to how we everyday people jump to rid ourselves of parasites and all I can come up with is how we might jump into another situ - coffee joint, bar, restaurant - to change our bodies, dump those existential parasites.
Off now to photograph the creepy Scientology Palace for the last of the Secrets of Allentown images for the small, shiney booklet for the tour on September 16th.

Mola Mola Love. (no)
Idea of Mola Mola Love. (yes)

New chestnut, compliments of Yours Truly.
Chronic dreams, chronic schemes.
So had the chronic scheming dream where I am trying to get to the Shiney Apple and am doing just about anything to catch the plane - wading through waist-high water, trying to catch elusive cabs. Then the other part of the dream is actually being in the Shiney Apple and deciding to prolong my time there, indefinitely. Calling whomever in the Middling City to say Well, I am going to be here much longer. How much longer, I cannot say for certain.
All this means YT is in desperate need of wending along the art-yielding streets.
One part of the SA portion of the dreamscape was someone wanted to cook me a dinner and I was thinking how I just wanted to sneak off to one of my favoured restaurants instead.
JT stopped by last night, after her melanoma-related visit to Roswell Park Cancer Institute, part of the expanding medical corridor that will transform the MC into a different kind of town, a white collar town. She described for YT how a mole may grow down into the skin several inches, a column of death. This visual will be haunting me for a while, as will the Shiney Apple chronic dream.
Today is a gray-skied day and will make the finishing up of the Secrets of Allentown images murky. So instead it's laptopping and editing like a madwoman.

Chronic, chronic Love.

So there I was, as You know, or might assume, minding my own business.
I was out in the hot Middling City sun and I'd forgotten to slather the 1.5K SPF lotion all about so I was silently being microwaved as I shot architectural images for the traipsingly wondrous Secrets of Allentown - highly recommended for its snoop-enabling possibilities as one wends along as a self-guidee poking one's curiosity into converted mansions, small former cottages, luxe middle class establishments on veritable Free Pass Day.
On the list was 388 Franklin Street and it was completely in hiding. I circled and then circled some more about the one-ways and finally just freakin' parked. I saw a woman in a yard on the corner of Edward and Franklin and asked if the place was 388. It was. And it's a much-viewed mystery building, a brick building with a somewhat-wobbly rainbow painted on two sides. It seems to be a daycare center but upon introducing myself to the lady, who is a nun, I was informed the building is not a daycare center but a pre-K situation. And a convent. I got a tour, the same that the public will have and amongst the architectural features were artifacts of both ilks. The guide, Brazilian-born Sister Victoria, asked, when I asked about her religious order, if I'd like to join the order, The Missionary Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy, to be all about exactitude.
I was stupefied.
Thanks, I said, but no. Then I suggested that she have brochures handy for the tourists - about joining up with the four conventioneers, as well as about the charming, warm school for mainly immigrant children from 3-7.
Yours Truly was not a taker, in this religious matter.
Time to wend toward freelance gigs of a more secular nature.

Love of Nature, and Order.

Had a gig that drug me into the Middling City Museum of Science this fine morning, to document a team of scientific types setting into motion the forlorn Foucault pendulum there, an unloved item one can spy when going up and down the terrazzo steps in lieu of the vintage elevator that does not instill confidence.
On my way out I decided I must have a look around as it's been a while since my last visit.
This, Yours Truly believes, is a sad sad building whose architectural magnificence has been stolen in the name of progress - and, obvious lack of funds. The grand entrance reminiscent of The Met in the Shiney Apple, AKAG in this city, and on, is not used. Instead an entrance has been fashioned between the old portion of things scientific and a new build which features a science magnet school. Displays are unloved, dishevelled. There was a good photo exhibit of Tibetan images made at the dawn of the twentieth century when it took about a year to get to this place that no longer exists, really. YT is seeing a parallel. But this exhibit is to coincide with the Dalai Lama visit next month, the nineteenth of September, a grand event.
I spent time with the Marchand wild flower models, and an overview of the dioramas nearby, encased in oak with untouched floors and a gravitas that is precious, elicits memories of Sugimoto work documenting similar showcases. These showcases need some cleaning and some had (I stress had) names of flora and fauna taped to the glass for those who could not make the leap from wall note to showcase easily. Moth. Raccoon. Bear. And more. YT ripped off these small print-outs sometimes taped right in front of a taxidermied face - it seemed disrespectful, not to mention idiotic.
On the way out (mind You I have only passed a small group of children making crafts and some very suspicious handlers, in addition to the scientific types I documented) I noted with special special interest the showcase devoted to two beloved MC primates - Jonesie and Eddie.
I remember them both. There was no showcase devoted to Sampson, who terrorized my dreams when I was very young. Jonesie, I learned, was named for a local milk company. There was the photo documentation of each of them and in front there were their taxidermied selves. Eddie's nameplate had fallen but from the photos behind him you just knew - EDDIE.
One photograph showed Eddie Doing his part for the war effort and shaving a man who appeared to be very dead in a wheelchair. His face was not only lathered but contorted.
Alongside Eddie's memorabilia was a large drywalled area where folks could jot down a fond memory of Eddie and affix it to the wall. From the scribbled penmanship it was obvious that most of the memories were being left by the very young who only knew taxidermied Eddie, not the banana-munching ape so beloved by the freakin' city.
One child wrote this, my favourite.
I don't trust Eddie.
Another wrote
I am looking at Eddie and his eyes are following me.
Your homework assignment is obvious.

Eddie, Sampson, Jonesie Love.

Really not thee biggest question at hand but Yours Truly is rolling in deep procrastination and was distracted by the pretty header on the letterhead - LEADERSHIP BUFFALO. Their Class of 2007 Application. This org's been on my tail annually since a client pal handed over my namely goods about six years ago. I have hemmed, I have hawed. I asked hipster congressman Brian Higgins, who I saw out and about this week, if he'd ever done it. Always searching for signs YT says to herself and not aloud Hey, if the congressman's done it, so shall I. Well, he did not. But I am still hemming, hawing.
*sidebar: NYT ran a very bouncey piece on young Belgian-born designer Olivier Theyskens, and it did include one quotable quote, it goes something like this and has been added to my Smart Words folder.
“I’m forced to think ahead, to imagine what a girl should look like in a year from now. That makes your mind sensitive to signs. And looking for signs makes life more logical in a way: you are always ready for the future.” *
In the poo poo column of Leadership Buffalo is that there's tuition and said tuition hovers over $3K. Also there are sleep-overs. And there's homework.
Lately YT has been the imperfect IT Girl. And I do not mean It girl, I mean IT girl, helping others with their computer glitches, improvements, transitions. A bit of my own laptop issues tossed into the chaotic salad but let's just say that I am getting to know the guys at the Genius Bar out in the mall in the former wetlands well. But not as well as a few distressed iPod users who always seem to be facing one of two raging problems - heat surges, and drop-related fiascoes. YT is happy to report that my own iPod, like my PalmPilot, is safely nestled onto the non-virtual desktop, unused and unloved. The iPod has twelve songs imported by the X and there they remain. And not even my favoured selections to boot.
Listening to the new Sonic Youth, again. It's good and I float along with it but really, with a gun to my head, could I name any track titles, could I say (yet) Oh, yes, this is blankety-blank, not blinkety-blink. I think not. Plus this is a copy made by Bandmate Scott so, in my defense, I have no liner notes to make any of the list more stickable.
Speaking of sticking, today is the death anniversary of Jerry (jeez, Garcia, get like so with it), as opposed to his birth anniversary on the first of this month. Told Kennedy I'm making a cake for Jerry, a nice vegan recipe supplied by Vegan Queen Amy Beeman.
Came out of Liz's house with a supersized glass of white and found that I was standing right next to a guy reporting his name and status amid the circle of gathered freelancers and scant staffers for the Shiney Happy Mag Idea Toss. Tossed in several fine ones of my own of varying degrees of servitude (funny how certain words just pop out on their own), seriousness, irreverence. We splintered off into smaller groups where the ideas were bandied about and me and Lawyer Bill did our usual good-natured sparring. One '07 story idea I'm rather excited about is a piece on pool-hopping which I fear may be a lost (or waning) art.
I deemed it oso necessary to have an illustration tracing our (Lawyer Bill and I said we'd co-write this) steps and dives, just like those endearing "Billy's Path of Ruination" illustrations in Family Circus that, as a child, one could get lost in for possibly a whole fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of Love.

Usually grandmothers are the seers and/or the saints, the family members who've crawled on their bellies through raging fires of personal experiences, put some out with a handful of flour onhand in the larder, held most of the adults in the room when they were newbies. My own beloved grandmother, Victoria, I felt, looked in upon my soul as nobody else could for this lady not only knew me from the first hours, but was a wisdom conduit. If you asked, if you listened.
But yesterday, shooting an ultra-country wedding, the grandmother in the room was like so wrong. And I didn't want her to be wrong, going along with the beliefs outlined above. But when Country Gram wandered about, telling everyone that the wedding cake collapsed because of the wedge the couple removed for that choice photo op, I tried to reason with her frail self. Yours Truly said No, they cut the wedge here (gesturing) while the collapsing is here (gesturing again). She would not look, nor see the truth. It was that the base (not visible under what appears to be seaweed) was not level itself, sending all tiers into a dramatic and slow-motion whump. YT was seated nearby, as luck had it, with a divorcé whose wedding I shot several years ago, her dairy farmer date (who I peppered with questions about his transformation to the world of organics. . . and expressing my unfettered negative reaction when he told me about the lifespan of machine-pumped/chem-addled cows who yield an excessive six years as opposed to happier, organic cows who can live about four times longer), a woman I knew from Darien Lake's rock & roll venue, and some exurban tavern owners. Someone muttered that the cake was collapsing and I turned most quickly as my camera happened to be resting near the cake on the very same table. As it were, the collapse happened at six o'clock whereas the d2x was at 10 o'clock and it was not necessary to lick sugared shortening out of its delicate crevices. I documented the minimal wedding-day debacle and even assisted a youngster with his cell phone with getting the best shot until the caterer said We would prefer as few photographs of this as possible. To which YT stifled a gut-wrenching guffaw. Scouted out some fab locations for going off the grid as I wended to and fro the Middling City. And, lest You are unaware, all this happened, and this landscape may be gleaned, in under fifty miles from currently sani-wrapped City Hall.

Landscape Love.

Today is the tiny window of opportunity (two hours, cheesh) to drop off donated work for Children's Hospital of the Middling City and I'm looking at the clock wondering if I have time to rush north before I need to drive way east. This is a Middling City Society of Artists Plan.
Yours Truly did the same a few years back for Roswell Park Cancer Institute, donating the piece Touching Green that I totally dig.
Think I'll have to contact Jerry Mead and say it's coming, on a later day.
Speaking of art and logistics, signed on for Secrets of Allentown another year, despite the oddness of last year when my parents were standing at the starting point's ticket table and being told that, despite their daughter's hard work and nominal honorarium and agreed-upon four comps, they were going to have to pay. I had my dad pass his cellie to the SoA leader and was told by him that Several people donate their time and services and . . .
YT said, as politely as possible, give my parents their effin comps, s'il vous plait.
We'll see if this year is as fraught with discombobulation.
Speaking of such, JW,Esq. informs me that he is loftless but owns a sailboat now that he does not know how to operate.
In my non-humble op, I believe this corporate counsel has perhaps embraced too richly the rock & roll lifestyle, tossing his concerns to the four winds and such.
Speaking of r&r, shot some ports of The Bummer Road in front of closed Happy Corner Store. The band says they just might entitle their next release On the Happy Corner.
I asked if we should have the rotund lady in Cleopatra sandals move out of the way and Matt Valentine said Extras are GOOD.

Extra extra Love.

Although some, if they did in fact see a snapshot of Yours Truly entering the car dealership, might proffer up that it was the strappy sandals, the preferred raison would be my keen bargaining skills, a raging and recurrent audaciousness.

*sidebar tell-taling is that I was selecting blogmusic and hit the hi-fi's eject and out popped several that YT had not inserted - discs placed in the carousel by the most-recent outta sight/outta town guests, The Bummer Road, who played a subterranean Middling City gig this past Tuesday. Reflecting influences, collective m.o., and chemstate, they listened to Mazzy Star, Love, Miles. Of course, of course, and of course.*

So there I am, at the dealership, full of pique, up to my discerning eyeballs with the Mildewmobile, its exhaustive issues, its short list of lemony quirks that should have stayed away from the 1.5 year-old vehicle. But no. So, having had enough, I am there, in the strappy sandals, as I mentioned. I was shuttled over by a greeter type, a femme in training, to a young former film student and grip (one shares personal fun facts over such wheelings) taking the first bite of a sandwich. In a nutshell, two hours later, I was signing a contract for a new Subaru lease. I picked it out from the slim manual transmission pickings - dark gray. Do you want to drive it, Matt the former film student/grip asked. No, that's allright, I shot back. Two hours later it had been detailed and I was again on my mildewless way. Happily.
Onwards. Literally.

Recently I horrified a pal with my strong summertime, male-related belief system that, in a nutshell, is a most unratifiable short list.
1. Men should not ever be shirtless in public, no matter their age, follicle level, social status. Except on a beach.
2. No sandals for men. YT has never seen a man in a pair of sandals and thought Geez, he does look smart and sassy and great in those. No sandals for men, ever.
Not even on the beach.
And I do thank You in advance for your attention to these important, seasonal matters.

I just hauled three pals into the new Woody Allen movie. There went two hours of our lives, eight hours of wasted life time in all.
The best part of the movie was some shots of gardens, I saw some of my beloved plume poppies. Of course the plume poppies were much more controlled than what appears in the personal jungle.

Jungle Love.
It's driving me mad, it's driving me crazy.
As Steve Miller et al are wont to say.

Today wrangled with the past by brazenly ignoring the ongoing policy of ignoring high school reunions. Attended an event this afternoon honouring three fallen classmates: a sudden death, a cancer death, a suicide. I did skip the evening portion of drinks on a patio on the river.
And, just as with hanging with Loomis, I am intrigued by how memory obscures nearly all events from those non-halcyon high school years. Over lunch six of us managed to piece together some things.
As I did one year ago with Loomis, I rifled through a lost & found to glean a few souvenirs and the objet I scooped up I'm mailing off to her.
Today at the memorial gathering I read Evening Without Angels by Wallace Stevens, as I did for my Aunt Marion's funeral. One thing to completely dig about this poem, beside its wordsmithed perfection, is that no matter how many times it's encountered there is a surprise, an impermeability.
The poem has celestial sounds that belies its darker thrust.
You will miss it online. You will find it below like right now.
----------

By Wallace Stevens
Evening Without Angels

Why seraphim like lutanists arranged
Above the trees? And why the poet as
Eternal chef d'orchestre?

Air is air.
Its vacancy glitters round us everywhere.
Its sounds are not angelic syllables
But our unfashioned spirits realized
More sharply in more furious selves.

And light
That fosters seraphim and is to them
Coiffeur of haloes, fecund jeweller –
Was the sun concoct for angels or for men?
Sad men made angels of the sun, and of
The moon they made their own attendant ghosts,
Which led them back to angels, after death.

Let this be clear that we are men of sun
And men of day and never of pointed night,
Men that repeat antiquest sounds of air
In an accord of repetitions. Yet,
If we repeat, it is because the wind
Encircling us, speaks always with our speech.

Light, too, encrusts us making visible
The motions of the mind and giving form
To moodiest nothings, as, desire for day
Accomplished in the immensely flashing East,
Desire for rest, in that descending sea
Of dark, which in its very darkening
Is rest and silence spreading into sleep.
. . . Evening, when the measure skips a beat
and then another, one by one, and all
to a seething minor swiftly modulate.
Bare night is best. Bare earth is best. Bare, bare
Except our own houses, huddled low
Beneath the arches and their spangled air,
Beneath the rhapsodies of fire and fire,
Where the voice that is in us makes a true response,
Where the voice that is great within us rises up,
As we stand gazing at the rounded moon.

----------

So after high school revisitation (really, I did enjoy the girls, lunching and laughing) stopped over at Liz's - post Garden Walk - to see the garden in its fullness, and to see the prized lily that she repaired with duct tape.
And not only that but a good glob of Elmer's Glue to boot.
(This also conjures how YT has been doing some plantings, time allowing, anticipating a late-summer fete and the rock star visit this upcoming Tuesday chez moi.)
There is a plethora more going on this fine, about-to-deluge evening and I did think of Al (as in Gore, not Farmelo as 1. who is the champeen of global warming miasmas and how to fix - go here for some awareness, and 2. I have never, ever referred to Allen Farmelo as Al, as dozens of others do.) as I read of record-breaking high temps the world over, beloved Paris has even become an oven and the bedgraggled tourists at the Eiffel Hoopla are being misted with water cannons. Yours Truly imagines dozens of fun-savers ruined each day.

Must report upon some missed (speaking of misting and missing pieces) happenstances of late.

1.
Minding my own business I was returning to the USofA from Canada and was at Booth 14. Waiting and waiting as seemingly each booth had a complication, a slew of questions, trunks popping open for closer looks. It became my time at #14 when, seemingly, all hell began to bust loose as the inspector, the border patrol man became rather panicked and speaking loudly into his shoulder radio. DISREGARD SOS FROM BOOTH 14, DISREGARD SOS FROM BOOTH 14. I looked at his face sort of awaiting an ironic punch line, or a few SWAT Team members emerging with AK47s at the ready. He looked down at me in a strange way, perhaps to see if I was expressing any anti-social, pro-terroristic senses of humour.
2.
Again minding my own business met a bunch of girlies out recently after dinner with Jana at some Med joint. Read: garlic dips.
At appointed meeting place there are others that are pals so it became a real happening of sorts. Jen and Eric were there, for instance.
So I'm standing at the bar (Yes, minding the business of YT) when the bartendress (and I do refuse to use the word barmaid as it conjures for me images of ass-pinched women sweatin' for tips) puts the ol' upturned, or downturned, rather, shot glass in front of me pronouncing Apparently, you've touched a customer in here.
And, of course, I had to ask if that was appropriately or inappropriately.
I asked who the spender was and she sort of bobbed her eyes about. She finally tossed out the biggest clue of all. Cowboy hat. There were two bona fide (you could tell, believe You me) cowboys in the joint, obviously from far far away. I saw them eating Slim Jims later. In case You had a doubt. At some point the cuter of the two cowboys meandered by and, as he passed, said in my face You shore are purdy.
Did I feel like Debra Winger just then in that god-awful cowboy movie. Nope.
Can You explain how that image just emerged from this high school memoried-besotted brain.
I thought not.

Not thoughts, Love.

Sent in an email that I am not going to undertake the Doctor Nance Project.
Thought and decided that my passion is not There, but elsewhere.
I already slogged through a program for my field's terminal degree and the thought of maneuvering through seminars, attendant writing and reading, plus teaching responsibilities, and maintaining my career was not only a hellacious undertaking, but not one that enthralled.
Onwards.
Not easily, but onwards.
Time to make make and do.

Doing and not doing Love.

The People (yes, that would be a big P) of Andrew Cuomo hunted me down to insist that I troll The Archive for more more more images of him and Eliot and Hillary. I complied but not before a question - OK, so your deadline is in like how many minutes, how long did you HAVE this deadline.
The woman I was in actual contact with transitioned from the ennui-laden voice of a campaign chair in the Shiney Apple to the squeaky all-girl high-pitched We Are Conspiratorial Pals voice.
Well . . . Nancy . . . you KNOW how campaigns are.
Onwards.
So here I am in the Mac store in the former wetlands of Cheektowaga, in the dismal mall - a universe away from the clubbiness, the buzz of the SoHo/Preferred Mac Joint.
Working in said Mac hangout in the former wetlands on a demo model just like the one that the nice Apple folks constructed per my requests out in Cali. And, just like the machine of Yours Truly, the freakin' trackpad does a very odd skip and jump.
It is time to wend my way out of this happy land of machines and digital pageantry to the land of deadlines, and requests.

Honeyed Love.

Yesterday's gig was making portraits of a solid couple, he the gatekeeper if You will of a fine old Middling City place of worship to the intangible energies of Life.
The couple told me that upon finishing their sitting with me they were going to ready the joint for two baptisms, a service, two weddings. That they'd packed lunches and dinners to lunch and sup in the back catacombs whilst their helping hands were not needed. We discussed the somewhat Pagan-sounding tradition (a dying one, according to them) of arriving believers to dip their fingers into Holy Water to remind themselves of their baptismal promises.

As this couple in Love was busy backstage before our shooting I gave a donation to the candle fund, stuffing it into the large wooden box to light a large blue candle under the resident copy of the Pieta in honour of the first death of one of my first cousins, Patricia.
Under the Pieta as her mother, my aunt, is, needless to say, beyond heartbroken and stayed with Patty from Mother's Day (when the devastating news was delivered) until now.
Patty died of lung cancer. This was fast and furious and following her ineffective complaints to doctors of shortness of breath. Bronchitis they said. Wrong. Peace to the soul that is free.

Deborah told me yesterday that she made her Bat Mitzvah, that it was a rather surprise transition, that they did not even know that she would be making it. I think I'd like to make a celebration for her Bat Mitzvah.
Made one of the best green gazpacho recipes YT has ever seen, this time for the annual chili extravaganza at Bruce and Diane's. As Luck would have it found a cut glass punch bowl, as I did last year for a soirée at Liz's where I brought same soupy goodness, at the supersonic thrift joint. Being a tomato allergy victim (TAV) I like to show up at tomato-centric events with non-tomato molecules. At the party, held in honour of Bastille Day (back on the 14th, bien sur), saw a plethora of pleasing people, most alligned with Middling City U - a treat for sure.
Saw President John Simpson and Katherine across the way and could not get over to give a big hugging Halloo. John, always dressed to perfection, actually, she is, too, was in a vibrant short-sleeved shirt, quite unlike the vintage complexity worn by Pat K at the joint where I met some of the girlies this fine morn.
Brought Kennedy to the party last night and beforehand to the most soothing Botanicus Gardenus at the edge of South Park.
Marvelled at some orchids, plunged into lemon blossoms.
Bought a succulent that is truly a work of art.
Speaking of art, came up with a grand book club-like concept to be carried out with the girlies to make art in lieu of reading. Get together. Have an art project. Finish art project. Hurray.
Time to speed off into the distance for now.
Carrying with me all that is.

Is Love.

Literal Harold and I met yesterday for breakfast at the sunniest diner in the world, within a pancake's flop of where Father Baker remains.
The coffee is as bad as the vibes are good.
Harold made me jealous at one point as he regaled me with stories of his junkets and travelling gigs, one for the NYT to a suthirn state of all places for their 36 Hours Series. I asked him to help me decide about the PhD/Doctor Nance Project but I think the newer, better aim is to be more a photog v. of Literal Harold. I can always just get vanity plates that say DoctorNance... oh, no, too many letters. It'd have to be some ineffective DOCNANC which makes absolutely no sense.
We had planned after this post-industrial townie meet-up to walk in the most excellent of the Middling City's Olmsted Parks, South Park. Magical, with water lilies, vistas, and the pesky golfers are not so plentiful and, as is the wont of public coursers, they do not let out yelps of helpful Fores whilst driving that little ball home.
So we meet over at the park and Literal Harold, upon hearing of my odd bout of heatstroke last week, promised to have a palm frond in hand to fan me.
And I'll be goddamned if he didn't appear from his sensible Chevrolet Classic rental with a faux palm frond fan in hand. I snatched it from him and did my own fanning.
Dined at the favoured Allentown joint last night where there is always a primo selection of Thursday nighters, and vino. Enjoyed lots of sauvignon laughs, even despite the gushing rain that sent most of the diners indoors, me et some al under the tented outdoor cabana bar.
Off to more points above, beyond to make and do.

Love that Sauvignon Blanc.

this just in:
Philip Glass to play Middling City U this September the 18th.

Blogging via the new faster stronger powerbook with the illuminated keyboard. A bonus. What is not the bonus, well, it kind of is a bonus in this mad, real estate-driven world, is that there are many square inches of this machine - not just the 3" on the sides that I expected but the extra of the depth. And Yours Truly truly uses a laptop on her lap's top and this newbie gets rather warm, is rather weighty after a work jag.
Fussed around with Aperture until after a few hours I had selected images in a work folder just fine, could figure out how to place them on their stylin' light table yet could not figure - yet - how to grab each one and wrangle it into client-worthy readiness.
After that this is how YT felt.
Aperture: 1
Me: 0
First stop this fine dewy Middling City morn is a gig on the urban campus of MCU. Second or third stop will be. Quiz.
You have thirty seconds to figure out this answer.
Patient pause.
No.
Third stop is going to be Barnes and Nobility for one of those Aperture Life Raft handbooks, aka the Cliff Notes of Reason - the For Dummies series.
On a not lighter but more cinematic note, saw Johnny in his new movie and, as far as YT is concerned, they could have weed whacked most scenes with Keira and several with Orlando. More Johnny, less puffery.
As Jack/Johnny would say (and the one line in which he used it this time around got a rollicking laugh out of one of the elderly gigantic ladies in attendance at the matinée, armed with - what else - the econo bucket of the stalest, crunchiest popcorn, as she saw the first Johnny Pirate movie and was like so in the knowing) Savvy.

Swaggering Love.

Hot-weather-inspired Middling City parties this weekend - involving margaritas and burritos.
Or is that burritoes.
Let us ask Dan Quayle.
Or not.
Cheryl & Ed had the margarita party and Gary and Michele had the latter. Today had coffee with some gals, not Mexican.
Neither the gals nor the java.
Come to think of it Yours Truly only had one Mexican acquaintance and she came with the X so it's perhaps safe to say YT has no Mexican acquaintaces at this time.
Regarding the Mexican-related hoopla, perhaps in these warm months all denizens of the MC should carry about some Frank's, just in case.
Did not attend the Italian Fest, the Burger Fest. Skipped this year's Taste of Middling City. These are all foodstuff frenzies and why should events be centered mainly on food. Oh, that's right. Take a look around. The adult record-setter of burger eating ate a meager five in five minutes. Couldn't any red-blooded non-corpse of any nationality eat that many. I ask You.
The child in the kid burger eating melee ate fifteen. More like it.
In the review/commentary of the event the Middling City News reportage intern stated or reminded that at the core of eating contests lies this little trick.
One must dip bread into water.
Here YT would like to toss in this fun fact.
The human stomach is about the size of a fist, the size of a grapefruit. Imagine what you put into it during a meal. Or not.
I rest my biologically-revelatory case.
Tomorrow's first gig at the Center of Excellence.
Truly, YT prefers to spend most of her time at Centers of Excellence.
No matter the genre.
Tomorrow, and this is really the grandest fun fact of all, YT receives her new power book. The super-duper-magna-cum-power-loaday model.
The beauty of ordering à la carte online is that one may toss onto the machine what one likes from the vast and stormy (well, in actuality, their crisp menu is not at all stormy as it is all very helpful with links wherever there might need to be some clarity. like epinw) menu. Aperture... pre-installed. And more.
Let us end on my favoured DQ quote: What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is.

Love of Knowledge, big and small.

Colour Yours Truly absolutely perplexed as to how it has taken this long for the second disc of Beth Orton's pass in time to be spun on the hi-fi. Three years to be exact. I am utterly amazed and gleeful as it really is summer cd parfait. This is the one with the haunting song made with the ChemBros - Where Do I Begin.
Dropped about a dozen or so of my grain elevator images (drawings, photographs) on the gallery near the teahouse. Propped them up alongst the walls and assume I'll get some sort of call as to when the non-public hangings are to happen, to hash out details of a reception involving the usual sundries and sips.
Off to a slew of girlie gatherings for various occasions - live music, the birth anniversary of beloved Annie, gardens.
Of the garden variety, lunched along the Middling City's bustling avenue and it actually felt urban. I was transfixed.

Transfixed, focused Love.