Thinking of nothing and shooting stars.
Post wired seminar wrap-up, the wrangling together of dangling concepts and links as well as heated repartée regarding laptop and cellphone use in public green spaces (the tossed-in salty ingredients, if you will, into this unchallenging bouilliabase was that such conservative banter teeters on the fascistic - and my additional shocking utterance that to some of us the wailing of babies is as offensive, for example, as chatter into a cellphone is to some), I escaped to Lincoln Center on a rec to see The Naked Spur, part of a retro. Starring James Stewart, an actually enthralling western whose landscape is masterfully rendered by Anthony Mann (like a back country rogue he, too, has an alias: Emil Anton Bundmann) back when the world was Technicolor, shot in Technicolor and there were shoot-outs. Wait a second, there still are shoot-outs.
So following all the boy action and guns and the like I was sorely disappointed that the ending was most girlie and smoochie. Yes, I will follow you, stranger, to god really knows where and marry you. *barf*barf*barf*. My eyes rolled like credits, despite this nonsense it was primo.
After leaving the movie I walked into a happening happening happening, replete with spontanteous dance, stringy students from Julliard, Indian lady dancers, painted faces, a man holding a stuffed sun on a pole (can not we ever have a fucking festival without these Slaves of Whimsy), a slight dose of mayhem. Insert here my wish against wishes that artsy school had this sort of enthralling energy. Watched a photog from a distance, one of those hobbyists who fantasizes that he's part of a more seasoned and serious pack. These sorts usually tow a few unnecessary props. This guy got it all wrong and wore his backbrace outside his shirt, I think to signify that he works damn hard and has the battered spine to prove it. So I walked amongst the revelers which inspired me to ponder where I am, like where I AM, man, and then stood in front of The Met's schedule thinking which I'd go see and further if I should buy tix to the Bill Viola staging of L'Opéra in gai Paris in early pringtemps. Rain came down to rinse away my joie and it was back to art for crit's sake. Returned to loft to work on the digvid and spoke with JW,Esq who had an equally challenging day, his involving those difficult to pinpoint planes, amorphous flight plans, a sidetrip to Maine, etc. As he stated Our biorhythms are in synch - in synch with minor discomforts. He pointed out that I'd found myself in yet another Perfect scrape. Namely, there I was/am face-to-face with the PowerBook and it needed to work with me, not against me, to spew art forth from the cockles of its electronic intricacies to match mine own.

Matched Love.