Perhaps the majormost pinnacle of things that have happened this summer is the singing of Dream Weaver, with Luke, the drunk midget, last night during my foray to (what was it called) Wanda's, Wilma's, Wilhemina's, with Justin. I did not remember that the song rambles on at moments, nearly spoken word-style, and realized that it's the chorus that I dig so completely. All that other filler of words about whatever, astral plane references. Higher planes. Planes, planes, planes. Summer not of Love but of Planes.
The midget, I felt, was not trying hard enough. Was it the language barrier. He is Chinese and we were deep in the bowels of China Town. Was it his blood-alcohol levels. Was it stage fright. Was it a madcap independent streak that flies in the face of karaoke law and order.
And this all is for yet another short (no pun intended, for real) story, a collection, of stories about midgets.
Last night, in the midst of fabricating/creating an artist statement, a short fiction piece sprung forth, a story about M called The Tell. It's about 500 words and I'm very happy with it, thus far.
Met Dorota for lunch today at the usual joint and as we were leaving she recalled a shoe sale on Fifth. Where was the question, exactly where. I asked What, you are a Shoe Girl, how is this not emblazoned onto your consciousness.
We found said sale. And what did I find but an Italian pair of sky blue jobbers that are rather complicated.

Sky Blue Shoe Love.