Despite the fact that there was no pole to slide down, the visit and lunch at the Art Deco firehall in Rochester yesterday was good. As I wandered off to the ladies room (really just a small private bathroom which one of the firemen ran ahead to check for me and was in there for a good long while and when I entered I was nearly overcome with the scent of Lysol which I could taste for several minutes), I contemplated searching for the allegedly-missing pole, believing that that might be a stock response to that query, in avoidance of truth and law suits.
The chief said he could, if our group had time, drive me to a station with a pole. But we (me, Evan of the Shiney Apple p.r. firm, the judge, the judge's handlers) had no such thing and after beans, greens, diet Cokes, we sped off to the next photo shoot spot, a scorching public park in a suburb of the post-industrial city.
Shot hundreds of images of the judge, also manhandled her all day, getting hairs to stay just so, giving her short demos of how to stand, how to rest her hands in a natural manner.
Now, back at school, where tensions and exhaustions are running high as the defending process happens next week Monday-Wednesday just before the opening on the 10th. I go on the 9th, first, at 9AM and plan on rising and shining early, meandering to the French pastry/coffee place near my subway stop, getting all cranked up and heading into god only knows what. It was suggested to all of us thirteen that we devote the first ten minutes to presenting a historic sweep of our work. As this is the new directive I must add some more material to my powerpoint amassment.
About to meet pals out at Sweet and Vicious, to soak up some real life after a full day of school, travel, inner-city travel.
Tomorrow a further quest for materials to hang the screen I purchased earlier today at B&H.
Yesterday, I'll end with this tale, I took a ride from a stranger as I was rather in distress.
The judge and one of her handlers took me down the supersecret judge elevator in the court building, depositing me in a sector of the parking garage's lower level/deep bowel. This whole ramp had no signage, no clues as to where or how to find one's vehicle ever again.
Spotting me a man in a conservative navy blue sedan stopped and offered assistance, informing me firstly that he is a divorce lawyer and secondly that I was to become the third lost subterranean person he aided in this manner.
We drove around for about fifteen minutes, me looking for any sort of guidance from the endless array of concrete pillars, explaining how I'd entered this fracas in the first place.
Finally, the car. Then, as the man/divorce lawyer gruntingly got my lighting bag out of his sedan he told me he had done some archival management of a firm that had records of many prominent people of the Middling City, Millard Fillmore amongst them. It sounded interesting. Or was I just a grateful listener.
Last days of school are upon me. I will forever be back in the travel role of coming back to the Shiney Apple as a person with an art agenda, not as a grad student ever again.

Ever Love.