Woe is education: first wacky low-rez MFA programs and now transponders in lieu of intra-student, inter-classroom exchanges. Had a gig this AM at Middling City U documenting a newfangled thing that is like a remote control but allows students sitting in mega-lecture halls to point them at receptors on walls and answer impromptu or lesser-promptu quizzes.
I happened to know a girl sitting in the front row, a would-be photog who would follow me around a bit at rock extravaganzas and the like and ask several questions. I always gave much time to the learning with questions, especially the girls and my wisest words were to just keep shooting pictures and to get business cards and pass them out like mad fiends. So this girl, Emilee, is sitting there and complaining bitterly about the remote answering device. She said Middling City U wants to pretend you're not just a number and then this. She showed me the back of the device (that the students had to pay for - $30 with a $20 mail-in rebate) and how the number on it was registered to her so if she or I went nuts and started pressing madly it would record that Emilee suddenly had answering anxiety or inappropriate transponder behaviour and pressed madly. The prof was a bit awkward (NB: he's the showman type of teacher, all big gestures and phrases he's got down from years of the same materials . . . basically, he's accustomed to being the genius in the room) when I asked to make some pictures of him before the lecture holding the dang thang. I did after his hemming, hawwing. There were a few areas of buzzing and tittering in the gigantic hall and I feared I'd lose his concentration and kept shooting, giving him a bit of direction. So I'm done, the lecture is underway and Professor Showman announces that he'll be showing some slides and the show begins. Some of the slides are quite old, bad, out of focus. Suddenly there's one up of a bog person. Cannot recall if I've blogged about the bog people, the people who were murdered and who were tossed into bogs and preserved quite well and are not hanging about in Pittsburgh's Hall of Oddities. So then there's another slide, one of the burbling tarpits in L.A. Suddenly my pal Emilee is waving her arms as if her transponder is shocking her and Professor Showman finally sees her in the darkness. Not knowing her name amongst the print-out list of perhaps hundreds of names, he offers up a very friendly Yes. . . and Emilee blurts out a tale.
I was just there, at the tarpits last week and I can report that they are still active and I watched two pigeons die an untimely death.
I can see the face of Professor Showman change a bit and then he blurts out a generic Well, thanks for sharing and moves along to the other side of the lecture hall, not wishing to share his stage with such spunk.
I thought about saying bye to Emilee but thought You know she just might, being so jaded with this scene, use this as an op to blurt out who in hell knows. So I planned my exit strategy and drifted away, drifted into the abstract embrace of deadlines and such.

Such love.

Referent for You to glean what I have about blood bags. That they are not only disgusting and undoubtedly warm and squidgy but magnetic in their eye draw. This is image du semaine par Yours Truly in The Reporter. Wonder how many fries were abandoned as hapless readers looked at the blood bag whilst lunching, supping, noshing. Oh, right, I am no pussy. Note the amazing composition. This like so rocks. Don on.

Soaking up the wi-fi at the tea joint once again, Yours Truly their sole squatter.
This just in: heard from a photo pal moments ago that someone I know lost his leg a month ago due to a bad motorcycle twist and turn of fate.
Assessment: motorcycles = unfreakinnecessary.
Did a gig for an ad agency in Rochester about an hour ago, another hurricane-related photo op, this time with trucks . . . and cheese. Asked one of the drivers very diplomatically if the evacuees relocated to Atlanta knew to expect 38K pounds of cheese. Where were the crackers. The wine. Wished him a safe drive and noted that there were no silver naked ladies (cue Westerberg) on his mudflaps. Not a one.
The tea house girls are playing The Sundays and what a reeling and dragging back to the past this is right now.
Time to edit, to slice, dice, crop, invoice, muse.

Love's directive.

Yesterday, amongst other Middling City U gigs and affairs was sent to shoot a blood drive for those less sanguine post-catastrophe down there in the Gulfish areas, to discover that the drive for bloodletting was not happening. A quick scout-out of vicinity revealed no blood, no where. Quick call to editrix revealed it was a ruse, there was no blood, yet. Today was the blood drive, manned by a bunch of femmes from American Red Cross, a bunch of humourless ladies but, I suppose, when brandishing large needles and colorful bandages (gone are the days of buff-coloured plastic strips and HELLO to ribbony and gauzey multi-coloured choices . . . I was like so jealous) it is white coat appropriate.
I have shot other blood drives in my full-throttled and illustrious career and have always made it a real rule to not look at the bags, the plastic tubing draining the blood away from the bodies. In a fit of perversity I looked at one student's filling bag of A+ (I asked if he knew his type and he did) and felt my knees get all loose and carefree about staying afloat if You will. I said OOOO, I feel woozy. One of the humourless said I should sail over to the snack and juice station. I snapped out of it, those were mainstream snacks. And I recovered, self-realizing Hey, Perfect Nance, you are tough, deal with this, you are no pussy. And so I carried on, making more images of dramatic slices of reality - the grimaces, the plastic bags, the bandages, the good wishes, the concern, the editorializing of the slice of reality, the crafty angles to show face and not too much crotch or chest and personality more than prone donor.
Wow, Prone Donor - yet ANOTHER great band name.
Time to continue along this strange work day of portraits, blood, more images and paperwork.
But, always, there is time to give You a piece of this Perfect World, these odd and even days.

Odd, even Love.

Happy Labour Day to You, the day when all Americans tip minimum wage-earning countrymen and present them with small tokens of appreciation: items such as running socks, boxes of candies, a homecooked snack, a gift certificate to Starbucks (lest one is paying tribute to a barista there already).
Just off a multi-day labour-intensive bout of gigs and now to organizing and shipping and the like.
Amongst other intra-happenings was the apparent journalistic binge of a wedding guest yesterday who sidled alongside me and pounded me for about half an hour with probing and work-related questions. There's usually one of this manly type repped at each gathering - their attempt at engulfment fuelled by the sight of a woman carrying ooo-eee complicated electronics worth more than their cars, dressed well, at their social mercy (they believe). I suss out if they are a smart man or not and then enjoy watching their demeanours change as they realize that they are not talking to, sidling alongside, a complete nincompoop that they might flirt with a while.
So. Yesterday the wedding guest pre-toast decides to approach and I'm waiting for the usual banter to begin and it does. Are you . . . YES, I AM the official photographer. But then the banter plunges deeper as he is a smarter-than-most sharpshooter.
Do you feel like a voyeur at these things.
*Perfect thought bubble, edited, of course, tells this stranger how much I do enjoy a good round of voyeuristic watching.*
But the answer is: In a way, yes. I continue. But don't you feel like a voyeur, as well. I assume you don't know all these people in the room and even if you did don't you enjoy watching them, the interplay.
Yes, he answers, but do you feel like you're intruding.
*Thought bubble answer = I am being paid to be here, to intrude for pay.*
Answer: No, I think we are all in the same situation, all watching and I bet some people here are not that close to the bride and groom, that happens at all weddings, so they might feel as distant or watchful or voyeuristic, in a way, as I.
He's on a roll with the line of questions.
Do you feel like it's cookie cutter, that it's only a job, that it's formulaic.
*Thought bubble = Where's the little lady, go away, go away, where the F are the b&g to get this toast action started p.r.o.n.t.o.*
Answer: All gatherings have a similarity, there's a typology of people. Like, there are the men who are obviously uncomfortable in their ties, who never wear suits.
You can tell all that.
*Though bubble = what are you, fuckin' kidding me. This is the most obvious thing to mention.*
Answer: Yes, I nod to a man in that category. And then there are the people who obviously never go out with their partners/spouses, you can see how little they usually interact socially . . . at something like this they are awkwardly standing near each other.
And on this goes until he thanks Yours Truly for enduring his Larry Kinging.
&
Had an interesting conversation with the d.j. at the same wedding last night. He had a rather personal harrowing tale of the heart and we bandied about tales, anecdotes, advice until we ran off into separate directions, to our respective duties.
&
There were a few 10ish boys there with not a thought regarding what to do so Yours Truly, in camp counselor mode, directed them towards some good, hearty and healthy mischief such as: sliding down wide wooden banister, dipping fingers into the wedding cake's frosting (I provided a demo), and searching for the venue's secret passageways. And more. Somehow these kids had missed out on the possibilites for discreet good kid times, those heady adrenalized and unbelievably unfettered intra-happenings, not unlike those previously reported by Yours Truly.
Take this with You:
When life gives you happenings, grab onto your own mischief-laden intra-happenings.

Intra-Love.

Had The Raucous Girls over last night, ate and all under the pines as Extra lurked in the shadows and suddenly the Church of the Loud featured their pastor on mic for a shouting half an hour. They must have been having a vigil of sorts, no rockin' band, no shrieking singer.
In throes of marathon work weekend, the sort that makes you pine, speaking of pine, for some free moments or self-directed times.
Time to head back to the 'burbs after this Historic Old First Ward respite.
All for now and over and out.

Respite Love.

Welcome to Perfect Nancy's Cooking Show.
zippy logo and quickcuts of cuisinating heroine, smiling and alternately looking très serious, holding (à la Julia) a robust glass of white wine in one hand whilst stirring something with the other. Fans might note Perfect Nancy drinks left-handed.
Cut to commercial break. Show sponsors = Johnson & Johnson brand band-aids, Pier One, some shoe company and the biggest sponsor of all . . . the makers of Oban.
Back to Nance.
Salutation and description of what's to come in segment.
Background music alternates, Libra style, between heroine's eclectic music styles. Think Neil Diamond, White Stripes, a smattering of Bach, some dj pal's cd, etc.
Hostess says every dinner party needs some fresh flowers and camera pans to the newly-purchased zinnias bundled nearby. Two bundles, assorted colors.
Heroine gets up on a stool to reach two of the various selection of colorful vases. When reaching for third vase all hell breaks loose as it slips through the culinatious fingers, crashing to floor.
Cut to chefemme, smiling impishly. (NB: Dragon Boy made this adjective stick for life, unlike a primo Le Creuset. . . possible new sponsor)
Laughing all the while for camera's sake glass is cleaned up.
Then onwards to cutting and arranging of flowers, making of Brazilian soup, a slammin' in-season-fruited cobbler.
Toss in a few other commercial breaks.
Then a shot of hostgirl with glass aloft.
Cheers.

Love's good cheer.

My houseguests yesterday were all instructed to watch out for the grasshopper. And I meant it - I did not want to suddenly hear a sad and errant crunch.
So I constructed the Have-a-Heart-Trap:V.Gr.© to catch the critter (had a catch and release about five mins ago): a large colander and an l.p. (in plastic sleeve).
It went swimmingly, as I am wont to say. The grasshopper sat in a daze in the sun and I watched him, his bionic legs looking a little dehydrated but he was relieved. And then Extra meandered toward me, excited to see his favorite person squatted down and already at kittie-pet height. He nearly crushed the newly-released grasshopper and I had to push his oversized paws out of the way.
And, lest you wondered or could have possibly questioned this (and here I must mention this in my most enthusiastic tone) The White Stripes, gifted to me this summer by a fellow enthusiast, utterly rocks. Each and every twang, note, turn.
It is time to work along this work marathon as I have a new corporation to get off the ground. You remember - Have-a-Heart-Trap:V.Gr.©. Investors please contact me at once.
Further parting positivity comes from down there in the south, via an email received by the epinw fan club a few days ago.

Walk the fields. Smell the most wonderful air and squish your toes in some mud. You'll regret it if you don't. Be wild, in the wild . . . Scream 'I am Nancy and I win.'


Love's Winner.

A bientot placid setting.
Hello oddball Middling City.
Back from five or so day sojourn with Kennedy et al up there in the north next to a multi-bayed lake rimmed with rock and bass and tree life.
Was alarmed into abode and drifting away into Z-Land when *suddenly* there was a loud bang. I had my cellphone in the room and after my heart jumped out of my body and I listened for what might come next I knew I had to make a call. In lieu of 911 called my mother, who I knew would still be up reading.
I described the noise. Twice.
A LOUD BANG. Then I said Wait a minute, I want to be sure I don't hear anyone in the house.
My mother had me describe the sound and then offered this comforting question:
Do you think it was a shotgun blast.
Onwards.
Had to do some tech errands today and get a new surge protector as the dang-blamed thangs do not last for forever. I had a thought to replace its sealed lead battery but changed my mind once I saw the warning about electric shocks and the like.
Settling all sorts of client-tech problems or miasmas as well as feeding the lurking and feral cats. Are they responsible for the shotgun blast sound. I think not.
Could it be the nearby crackhouse.
Could it be the Rockin' for the Lord church.
Someone I spoke with today suggested weakly an earthquake.
Speaking of weather-related items, Karen informs me that her new home in LA (as in Louisiana, not the city of angelic rockstars) is not affected by that bitch Katrina.
And onwards again.

Love of mystery.

According to my epinw Blogger dashboard this is post 912 - meaning Sunday, when last I posted, I could have made a deal (grand, big, done) about the previous number.
But I did not.
In mere moments I will be in a car for a long while as today is the day Kennedy and I et al are heading north for a few. And therein lies the sad news for You for today. I believe wi-fi molecules will evade me this sojourn but You know intrepid Yours Truly - ever dousing-sticking my Perfect way towards technology, geekdom, access.
I will look.
I may blog.
Today for certain JR should have the final tiny slice of the thesis documentary pie in his mentor hands, widening the 3-ring (no, not circus) binder to add the slides I had made over at struggling Campos (mad props to their slides-from-jpegs capabilities - again, technology rocks) and a page of follow-along notes.
Wilderness. Naturally (literally, figuratively, sensationally) thoughts turn to other outdoorsy moments: encounters with wild animals, strange ways of cooking, unrelenting Nature and its practices.
Speaking of such, Brucey informed me I need to work harder. Harder, I asked, how so. In art matters he answered. Work harder - More Art Now.
Now.
Time to move along the northerly path of Fate, rimmed with wildflowers, berries and mushrooms that could be poison, whispers of scared small animals, an occasional danger-fueled and speeding car.

Love of the North.

Seems one of mine own photo bros. signed me up as a judge for a photo contest in November and the p.r. lady at the venue has been referring to it as not only a Low rent contest, but a low rent judging gig. Gives me pause.
Speaking of pauses.
This is the day that the lifeforce (just the fact that being happens) misconstrued as God in the minds of some and molded into varying righteous incarnations took a day of rest. Rest. Is for the wicked, as the saying might go. You see, this blogpost is mired in the quest - and recognition at the futility of such a quest - for accuracy. Idle hands doing idle things. Rest not on Your laurels. Rest not on the pause button and subsequent paperish accomplishments in the form of degrees and focuses.
On this day of rest Yours Truly mere moments ago channeled her former go-go self and worked the final nonrest-induced kinks in the back to Le Tigre's On the Verge.
John Irving, now there is a man. Handsome, lives in TO, writes like nobody's business.
His newest one, Until I Find You, has a prequote:

What we, or at any rate what I, refer to confidently as memory - meaning a moment, a scene, a fact that has been subjected to a fixative and thereby rescued from oblivion - is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling. Too many conflicting emotional interests are involved for life ever to be wholly acceptable, and possibly it is the work of the storyteller to rearrange things so that they conform to this end. In any case, in talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.
-William Maxwell, So Long, See You Tomorrow.

On the subject of lies, or changing and fictive and un-fixed (in photo sense as being unfixed and impermanent) moments.
That I will ever get to Tattoo Don's with one former kid neighbor who I saw at last night's nuptials, that he can get me in somehow some Monday or Tuesday night to get the small post-degree self-gift. This will never happen.

&

Going away with Kennedy et al for a spell and was looking for a mid-sized sketch book to go along with the excellent new graphite. Find a fab Italian leather book I've had and flipped through. To the non-cognoscenti: when choosing a sketch book size and page color and tooth are important as well as what is already in the book, as people flip through without asking, with abandon. So you look to see what the pages are holding. So this book I recall drawing and liking outcomes and ripping out a few pages. But amongst the waiting blank space was a small note from the X - about permanence and such, tucked up into a corner in that odd and small hand. It is too ironic to discard and now the book beckons to overcome such fallacy.


Fallacious Love.

At the end of a longassed day of working matters found myself with a decent glass of a faux-oaked chardonnay on the beach and realized the last time a beachy coast saw me was in November for Jordan's Bat Mitzvah when TMO got me that swingin' ocean-viewed room in Myrtle Beach and the morn aft I took, after some excellent digivd shooting for art's sake, the nap to end all naps as the cops (there for a convention of questionable purpose) stormed the hotel after Yours Truly checked out. Last night it was a Canadian beach, a thinning and limited public access beach on the lake rimmed with bays of various names - and landed Americans.
It was the 50th b-day party of Mark Griffis. The night before Hunter S. Thompson's ashes and boney remains are to be shot into the sky via a giant red-fisted cannon and with pyros and beloveds.
Upon seeing Mark I gave him fifty hard whacks with my hand and a hard pinch afterwards, a tradition, a bruising and let's-face-facts tradition.
In post-school flux figuring and making calculations as to the next phase and step and plan.
Time to rush about and then shoot what Kimmie last night dubbed a day of someone's new beginnings - a wedding.

Love of new beginnings.

One installation shot of Endmatter, thesis show.
This past Monday and Tuesday enjoyed sneaking up on the looped digvids, sort of still awed by technology, how my edited clips and their pixels became this grand display. It plays and plays from nine to five until August 24th.
Uploaded this +19 to a site to have digslides made to send to JR today to add to the packet to document the joys and the culmination of school.
Time to work on finishing up the building shooting project and deliver this bundle of joy to Liz at the Shiney Happy Mag for the annual Secrets of Allentown hushhush walking tour.
Last night dined under the stars at Cheryl and Ed's on the occasion of the visit of Kat and Nick and their new kid - Emma, a sociable baby. Brought a SAfrican white which was great but, considring that Dave Matthews emanates from there, what else could be.
Time to work on this gray matter Middling City day.

Endmatter Love.

Firstly, I must thank one of You, the inner-circled, Perfect fanbase, for referring to me as Master of Fucking Awesomeness.
That is the spirit, as they say.
Today awoke in Soho after a fabulosic dinner at Barmarché with Dorota and Jason and some much-needed sleep and some odd dreams and an early morning remembrance of the video for Big Electric Cat (Adrian Belew) that I saw at the tenderheaded age of whenever at Danceateria, seated on a comfy armchair alongside my pal Ruth Klein. I not only had a strong vision of the animated drawings of the vid but of Ruth's 80s, assymetric hair and a curious eyeliner line she made, dragging the kohlpencil across to her temple.
Just working on my ultimate Parsons hoop, getting the binder of documentation together. This means along with classmates the frantic assembly of images on slides, on cd, on dvd, of installation shots, of smooth copies of thesis and a few other items. I was working on getting digital images together, actually on the final of 20 all sized to perfection when a poltergeistic moment happened in the computer lab: a flickering in unison of all the screens in the room (about 15), a strange whirring noise, then a silent and awful kapoof and my screen went all dark after the open applications quit by themselves.
Technie Kimberly came into the room. Ooops, she said, I thought you three were just clearing out your lockers.
Communication is not ever a central issue at Parsons School of Demystification.
Time to finish, time to play in the Shiney Apple before returning to that Middling City.

Finishing Love.

Amongst other things, like the requisite groomsmen sloshing of pre-beers, all-around jitters and last-minute panics, there was one thing I never saw at a wedding before and never hope to again. It was as I was leaving and it was a heartwrenching thing to see and is amongst reasons why I am sometimes drained, as an Empathetic, from such emotion-drenched affairs. As I wended my way to the golden Forester the bride's dad was stomping across my path and I noted his gait. As he passed to my right I heard a bellow whose emotion to Yours Truly is oso familiar but a thing of the past - a PleaseDon'tLeaveMe. And there she was, in her flowing gown and veil, running to her father as he turned towards her and yelled I am out of here. As I drove away they were talking and I was sad for them both.
I am in my post-school, end-of-summer mindset which involves a rather feigned enthusing for the Middling City. And truly it's the mark of being a vagabond, of feeling that I am not sure where my home is or where I belong. And this is not a bad thing, in my Perfect mind. I explained this to Brucey. I would prefer at this juncture to have two places to stay - one in the MC and one in the Shiney Apple, flowing between them. An experimental sentiment.
Brucey told me he drifted into sleep whilst holding a smoke and awoke to the scent of scorched trousers. I told him I'm buying him asbestos overalls to wear after our cocktail forays.
On a related note, my Perfect dad turns 70 today.
Mr. Leo Man, I've always been compatible with those who are of Leo blood.
I made him a from-scratch cake and it was not so perfect and I blame the humidity. Really. So I placed 70 + 1 candles atop and we family people met at a restaurant in a suburb. The staffers whisked my cake art away and it reappeared as we had some coffee, I spotted it coming at us, held by three waitstaff behind a sizable tray. We all began to sing the requisite tune when they dropped the tray alongside the table and all one could see was a sizable blaze, the melding of candle flame. It was spectacular to one who relishes the flame.
We got one half of one stanza of the requisite tune out when my dad, in an apparent Safety First Mindset, blew the goddamned glow out completely and Yours Truly has not laughed that hard in geez a long while.
I sign off.
I think, plan, conquer, rest, think some more, and shoot.

Love's Agenda.

I am a video art star.
Lurking in the corners of the specially revamped room, I watched watchers watching the entire cycle of the thesis piece of Yours Truly. Did I tell You it's called Endmatter. Happily, wine was in the next room/lecture centre so I could tell my guests to just pop around the corner for a thimble of oso mediocre red and white.
The screen worked and to that I say hooray to the inventor of gaffer tape.
I got many congratulations from strangers and unestranged and it felt wonderful for a newbie like me in the video showing realm.
One of the evening's most memorable moments arrived with Anthony and Martha who absolutely gushed at me and the transformation of the room, AA shouting over the hush of the crowd THIS IS GREAT. Towards the end I talked with Adjunct John and I said You know, I think I should go and thank my mentor, JR. He pushed me towards that edge so I found JR and gave him a hearty hug, kiss, thanks. He said Thanks back. Now that's a mentor for you, always doing this guruistic Give & You Receive Thing.
Afterwards, as the crowd waned, I had a small after-party soirée at nearby Marquet and lavished wine and snacks with the help of Nana. After that the Brooklynites encouraged me to jump into a cab (with them and the Buffalo triad) to make my weekly foray to Boat, home of Brooklyn's best jukebox, where Renata does a bang-up nurturing barkeep trick, and Steve Bartoo makes drawings. He and Jen are having me over for some sort of dinner and art gifting extravaganza. I explained to him how one of his works would work magic in my straggling and emphatic collection. Speaking of such, one artist whose work I have followed, who I met in the Middling City and who now lives and works in Brooklyn, has a new smallish showing in the MC and I am sorely disappointed in his late-in-life turn of interest toward what I see as an attempt at what he should leave alone - still lifes.
Yesterday, speaking of still lifes, told my parents we should meet for art and lunch at The Met. The Matisse Lovin' Fabric show is fine for seeing another informative facet but some of his earlier works are cartoonish, with a heavy reliance on black lines. It was while I was studying some tiny drypoint I thought Hey, where are those parents and went through entire show and swung back in again thinking all the while Wow, my parents gave me the SLIP - if they wanted some alone time they should have said so. Then I found them, intently reading wallnotes in the first room.
I said Hey, have you two ever been on the roof. So up we went to see the master of idea, Sol LeWitt. Then I said goodbye to the parents and told them to Read faster.
Now time to fashion a short paper for Mark the Shrink and head back out to The Guggenheim of the Far Rockaways.
Time to time to time to.

Love is Time.

Seven of us (Pam & Pat, their three daughters, Alex the Bearded Tech, and Yours Truly) hauled ass last night to get my exhib space in order for tonight. After trying to visualize the prefab screen in the room - hanging - with desks and classroom amenities Pam and I asked the daughters to store the desks in the storage space in the room as we hauled a podium and chalkboard and garbage can out of there. Then, while Pam stood on a chair and held up the prefab item I could see it could work but would not be parfait. Looked again at the screen in-room = damaged piece of shit. Pam said What about seamless and the rest is now the stuff of grad show lore. Alex and I searched about the studio upstairs and found, finally, a bright white paper. This was then carefully raised to the wall by me, Pam & Pat and gaffer taped to the wall to match the size of the largest-possible projected video image. Hours later it was done and it looks amazing. The daughters hauled the two wood benches I relocated after their disappearances up on 5. The room is done, the dvd runs sans a hitch, the screen is huge, we worked out the lighting, the classroom accoutrements are nearly all cleared out (defending happens in the very same until 2ish) and I hope beyond hope that someone might think to get the two tables and six or so remaining chairs out of there and into the next-door room, an auditorium. I have a seminar today at 3. I will ask Mark the Shrink if we can have class in the aud. At 530ish I will begin putting my artist demeanour on and at 6 the hoopla (hopefully) begins. The post-exhaustion, adrenalized jubilance of an art opening that follows all the harrowing ups, downs and in-betweens of getting a show together. In some ways it is a lot like the newspaper racket: the work is huge, the stress the same and, when all is done, there is a (for YT) a curious sense of amnesia and a sense of Now What.

Now What Love.

Well, that can be filed under P, for pleasant and P, again, for unwarranted Paranoia.
I blog, of course, of the thesis defense, which went swimmingly this late morning after a panic of lost file on laptop, some turbo-powered coffee via Dorota, a run to subway, and a wait as the committee people straggled into the classroom/auditorium/exhibition space of Yours Truly as of tomorrow night.
Several of them (and them is Martha Burgess, Stacy Miller, JR, Anthony, chair Michelle Bogre) commented that they'd enjoyed reading the big D, and watching my presentation.
Michelle asked about Beckett refs and I said I'm glad you asked that question before trailing off on a short talk about all things Sam, the Middling City's illustrious Sam-infused past (productions by Josef Krysiak, and Federman, bien sur).
One of the commmembers commented thusly You would be a great visiting artist. To that I stated Well, ask me back.
It is over.
Now it is time to get my screen in order and get ready to hang the damned thing and get the digvid up and running and then clear much of the classroom accoutrements out of that room.
I think the fly has left that room, thankfully.
Time to keep working on art installation prepping and hear more tales about the post-D states of my classmates.

Post-D Love.

At one of the branch offices of Yours Truly that proudly serves You - Our Far Rockaways Branch - open all day, all night, with wi-fi, pay-as-you-go snacks and massage.
Onwards to school matters.
The room where I am to install the culmination of this school experience is also the room that is still a classroom and will be the room in which we defend our dissertations. What does this mean.
This does mean that it makes it very difficult to install what I need to install in the amount of time available. To this JR said Where were you all week. Ummm, working. We thirteen were to install on Wednesday. Wednesday I was in Rochester. Most of my classmates are hanging or have hung prints. They are done. Those of us who are showing video were told that Monday was tech day. Thursday I ran from this branch office to B&H to seminar which ends at 540PM. Then rushed out to do more art errands and returned to school where we are kicked out at 10PM sharp. Returned to school this AM at 10AM and was there until 3, really pushing the shit out of my getting-to-airport luck. Happened to see JR, no tech support was there and the gal who was there reconfirmed that Monday is the day. So.
I purchased a screen that needs to be hung. When will it be hung. Monday I can do this after 530PM as my classmates are defending. At that hour no tech help is available. I can do what I can by myself until 10, when I get tossed out again. The next AM, Tuesday, I defend first, at 9AM. It would be really great to get some sleep, to do some reading beforehand.
I am beyond annoyed at this additional, annoyingness.
Still have to get a good dvd burned, have to get screen hung, have to locate player + projector, move classroom accoutrements out of the room, have to move in a bench.
Time to do some scholarly reading and figure out how many more minutes my plane is delayed. Ms. Announcer just announced not only a gate change but a time change.
Grrrr.
Time to do some coffee slargling in addition to the reading.

Slargled Love.

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.

Merrily emailed off the thesis approximately two hours ago to JR. It came out as 2200 words and received a panicked email from Beth this AM who said that our theses (which, curiously, rhymes with feces - another post-ingestion product) are not to exceed 1500 words. Which I find odd as it's to be at least 1K. That is a tiny wordy window. I imagine someone at Parsons taking a giant marker to my thesis à la CIA and x-ing out all brilliant phrases, passages, footnotes, ruminations from word 1501-2200. That would like totally suck.
So now onwards to finishing up the digvid edits and then kapoof. Almost done. Let us not put our champagne before the flute shall we for Yours Truly still must defend her watertight diss on Tuesday. For that You must burn candles, think fine positivity-rich thoughts and oso much more.
Onwards.
Tomorrow is gig in Roch all-day with a politico.
Speaking of pols, just picked up lit by/for a would-be politico who is a restaurant man. He knows lines, he knows 86ing. Does he know how to run a Middling City.

Pol Love.

Stopped over at Liz and Alan's place today amid the Garden Gawk to give her the gift from The Frick that I forgot to give her last evening at my pre-grad soirée that they held for me. As I walked up the walk, underneath the mock orange they spotted me. They approached me and queried thusly Was it you two (meaning me and Kennedy) who bolted that thing to our front railing. I attempted a boldfaced white lie in the spirit of a prank but thought Really, it is rather obvious. But if they didn't think it was us then I wondered if Liz would presume the thing bolted to their front rail was left by a cross-town garden foe and then an all-out garden war would ensue. Last night's party was a raging success - no gunshots, broken coffee tables, no fisticuffs, no fires. Made one of my famed green soups and made sure that Blair et Monique (the affable hosts of the dinner party series Soup Night) had a slug or two of it. I told Blair that I am already excited - way in advance - to make again a fine Brazilian potage I made not too long ago. Cue following remark from Kennedy: This from the woman who not too long ago stated that she HATES soup. Well, here it is, for the record. There are many shitty soups that to me resemble something perhaps that'd be served in a 19th C halfway house: all water, no body. So I've been crafting soups that completely rock. The end about soups.
Time now to sign off for now to do a bit of online stalking of the famous photog Hiroshi Sugimoto for The Thesis.
Onwards to that.

That love.

(subtitle: from Endmatter, from the piece Three White Moments. The last moment when the critical turning of corner of three women in black is happening.)
A select handful of you epinw faithful/hapless have informed me that your snailish internet system connections have rendered it impossible to see my excellent digvid vlogposts. So, as I had to gather some stills of my digvids for the school's site and postcards and such, here is a smatter.

With extreme assistance from Beth and Chris the postcard for grad show and beyond for Yours Truly was completed. My machine's PhotoShop definitely has some type of buggish tendencies and so that only explains a fraction of my PS ineptitude. At one point Jim walks in as we're trying to accomplish some type of maneuver and I stated I know how to get images ready for clients, I don't do design work. The truth is out - I am not a complete ardent PS supporter.
After leaving school I got the green skirt that I've been yearning for, thanks to underwriting from Kennedy, so all of You are off the hook for that item and should begin immediately searching for other appropriate graduation gifts. More on Things & Me. Liz and Alan have dubbed their garden party on Saturday a bonus pre-grad party for Yours Truly. Liz and the designer(s) at the Shiney Happy mag recycled my headshot (made by a colleagues during his Glamm Period) from when I got 40Under40 when I had a cavalcade of hair. Note to self: your hair is growing out, no more wanton explorations into power of suggestion/scissors.
Went to see a movie around the corner from school at the Quad, Ballad of Greenwich Village which Jamie saw and liked last week. It was a bit sloppy but the woman who directed and culled archives covered a lot of history, terrain, personalities. My favoured joint in the Village, Caffe Reggio (where I've spent many hours reading and writing since I was about 20, when Chaz turned me onto it), was featured as were all the usuals. Tim Robbins is one of the featured personalities sharing a story and he was one of the best portions, speaking of returning there after long years away and being shocked by the 80s gentrification. Odd thing: current discreet gentrification of spaces in the Middling City - old office buildings, train and trade terminals, churches - is not paired with any great surge in population or outward beauty or any type of aesthetic improvements. I write that but know that I mean improvements in a manner that means more care of a building, addition of amenities like gardens and Not or Never would mean loss of art or artists and accompanying possibilities. Actually, that's what you don't see unless you live or spend a great deal of time in the Shiney Apple. With farflung gentrification it's nearly impossible now to find rough edges, something that seems Real, removed from the pervasive commerce aura. I do find myself missing midtown east a bit, sector of Dragon Boy, with smell of river and beat diners and a population largely comprised of eccentric beyond-retirees, but my favoured spot here is SoHo - from where I blog this instant. Where I revel in the still-dishevelled Lt. Petrosino Square. That is one rough edge, to be sure. Heading to Greene Street for a fine Moroccan man-made repast before the trudge to school and beyonder.

Trudges for Love.

Sure some of You don't, if not of the WiFiscenti, appreciate this blogmoment, but I just landed at the Gugg of the Far Rockaways and had to check work emails - another fine op has opened its interesting arms in the realm of freelance.
JW,Esq. (yet another public note for Your litigational self): saw Vito this AM, carrying a tray of fresh fruit through the Middling City's micro-mini terminal. He says Hi. And how was the big L in Chicago this past week. Can't seem to recall if the Pixies were playing it but if they did what was this like time number eight you've seen them this year.
Off to the A to the 4 to school, to delightfully meet with Mark the Shrink who will offer up cogent words of praise and somewhat Freudian and ever-intense thoughts on Art and, more importantly, today, the work of Yours Truly. I have been awaiting this. He helped me to delve deeper into what was the impetus and helped me unearth some influences I'd been pushing away. Like Sam. Like That Time. Happens that Mark and I share a respect for this play for three voices and last week I had a dream I produced (and I think even shot on digvid) a version of the play. I will ask him today if he has any interest being involved in this project.
Showed some of my thesis work and beyond to a group of people yesterday and the response was great. As in digging it, as in I felt that way about the work itself . . . and the responses.
Got an impromptu haircut from Jen at TruTeas yesterday. Mentiond that I was a bit less than thrilled with the growth progress of the locks and she said I can fix that. And so, grabbing some random scissors from behind the counter, she did.
Told her she'd best not tell Jon.
Jen noted that several of Jon's clients and such sport the same primary red tresses, like my former glowing mop.
Off to school to learn to think to blog and read further into the night.

Into, like, Love.

THIS JUST IN.
"There is a solid architecture to the piece." - Mark Stafford.
Just met with MS who had many helpful and respectful opinions for subtle changes to my grad thesis work. He noted that I'm calling it Endmatter, which he liked, though that title is not on the work itself.
Five stars.

Enjoying the Middling City gray sky, inspiring for a day full of screen capturing and freeze framing and the like.
Hopped from pal to pal for visitations, post-school work: Bruce and I ventured to the waterfront to experience the patio of the joint where I held my second and fateful waitressing job about a gazillion lifetimes ago and I felt we'd been transported to Vegas as that was the cheezball vibe - replete with a lady in transparent genie pants; Liz had me over and we sat amongst her lilies which were all reaching out with their stamens and scent molecules; and I rounded out the fun with Deb for a long while until James returned with one of the region's largest grills which the three of us wrangled out of their car and down the driveway.
Made a digital image of one of Bruce's paintings and the painting of a flayed sheep head and other accessories is now in my place, yearning, I am certain, to become one with my wayward collection of art.
Sitting in TruTeas again, soaking up the supersonic wi-fi molecules and about to upload digital files for the school website.
Have to say my PowerPoint prez rather rocks - collided the early grad student stills with early and later digvids.
Back to the Land of Wi-Fi.

Landed Love.

So maybe the burned-out 70s-era station wagon, faux wood panels, was a bad omen.
At the airport things started swimmingly: good parking spot, minimal security line, jovial TSA staffers. The coffee was fresh.
Got to the Middling City airport to see that, as is de rigeur, my plane was half an hour late. It arrives.
We troop onto the plane and are informed that due to some sort of weather system in Pennsyltucky we are going to sit for an hour and there will be a handy update as to our status. 10:00 arrives and we're informed that we're going to sit another hour and a half and then we'll get another update. The pilot gets onto the PA (don't You confuse that with Pennsyltucky ref mere lines ago) to tell us that he'd let us deplane but then we might get word that we can leave any freakin' second. And we know how long it takes folks to dawdle off and on a plane.
I make some Perfect calculations:
Perhaps we'll be rolling away from the gate at 11:30.
Then let us factor in another half hour for taxiing. Then actual leaving could be more minutes.
Then one hour in the air.
Then commuting into the city which can take upwards of two hours via the A train emanating from the Far Far Rockaways.
A to the 4 at Fulton Street.
That would get me into the school's front doors at 3PM.
So, after some phone calls, deliberations, got off the plane with a few businessmen.
A woman behind me was flipping out about needing a smoke, saying that she was Ready to scratch someone's eyes out. When told SHE could NOT get off the plane she inquired as to the fine for smoking in the lav and was quieted when told it was $10K.
I got off of the plane. Called Allen who fetched me when my parents were cellphoneless and in transit moving my car from the airport to my pad.
So, here I sit in the Middling City. Just emailed JR and Anthony to say I'm here still and will be there again on Wednesday.
There are three more weeks of school and now I have the bonus worry of wondering if these air traffic grumblers will foul up all my remaining flights to and fro.
Wondering if another airport might yield better results.
All for now and over and out.

Flightless Love.

So there I was, minding my own business back at the loft.
A day or so of learning, learned behaviour, trekking about doing my Perfect epinw thing. The Keren Ann gig was sold out to the rafters so to speak and so that was perfectly out. Suddenly, bursting through the door was thee very Keren Ann, entourage, and some tasteful floral arrangements. Celebratory shots were poured. Laughs were laughed. And then, en masse, we made our way to the after-gig soirée around the corner at the corner deli. In their secret, subterranean party chamber which is entered via a door that says Employees Only and, after walking through the kitchen with workers changing into workpants and boxes of produce - voi-freakin'-là . . . hot nightclub.
It was sort of a more rathskellar Double Happiness.
I commented to Katherine that the joint was so undergroundish it seemed we should all be allowed, encouraged even, to puff away if we so chose.
Jason was sitting underneath a chandelier with stilled candles that suddently the barkeep had to light. I said to Jason that that moment could approach the scene of Mahogany with Miss Diana Ross dripping candle wax upon herself. Only in lieu of Miss Ross would be Mr. Jason and instead of her curvaceous body it would be Jason's shaved head and kind face.
I informed Dorota that I had gussied myself up and had used her special lotion with the sparkles and that, in the elevator's harsh light on the way down, I noted that not only were there sparkles but a strange tone to boot. Think: supermodel meets Oompa-Loompah. We all looked hot and the club was not and once again it is time for me to hop aboard the plane to the Middling City, the left side.

Left Love.

So here I am, back at the Geek Clubhouse.
Was all ready to purchase the cog of the e-process to streamline my vlogging and lo, behold, it's not in stock. And more expensive than I thought it would be.
Turns out there is no seminar with Mark the Delightful Shrink tomorrow at 3 so I am leaving after meetup with JR followed by a portrait sitting of sorts with Philip for his own thesis project. The usual weekly exeunt has been at LEAST two hours late so this will hopefully be a slight improvement.
So I called Ms. JetBlue and I says Hi, Nance here, again. Look, more changes with school and all and I'd like to make some minor changes and, seeing that I was/am on an overbooked flight howzabout you waive all penalties and punishments and such. And give me extra water. They complied, so now I am arriving back in the Middling City several hours earlier. Told a select handful of my classmates that this to and fro feels like a weird micro jetlag. One downfall, a serious one, when squatting in the Geek Clubhouse is that you will absolutely, sans doubt of any color, hear/see the U2 iPod special tune aLOT. You can listen to Dr. Yo Internet Radio (highly recommended by YT) but it may still eke on through. The Genius Bar is abuzz and I traipse back in memory to that sad then joyous day when my PowerBook did not do the proverbial crapout.
(was looking forward to hearing Keren Ann tonight at Bowery Ballroom but that is like so sold out)
U2 iPod tune over.
Onto the next one.
At least they've taken Sheryl Crow, iLife spokesgal, out of circulation.
So, Kennedy tells me a staffer of the Starship Enterprise d.i.e.d.
Not relatedly, in honor of the BadW's idea for the next supreme court figurehead, I am wearing my anti-George t-shirt. I proudly showed it to Nova Chuck and he said You know, that means No bad pictures of our president. I managed to muster him up a tiny other side of the aisle hardy-har.
Off to mine own and art-related geek matters.
Calling my entire thesis project Endmatter.

Entire Love.

With the nice lady at JetBlue's assistance, I was truant yesterday. In lieu of jetting over to the right side of the state for a gallery foray, a field trip of sorts and more group panic about the pending thesis group show, I met with my attorney. Enough about that.
Been working like, as I like to say, a mad fiend. I did get the gig with the senator and will need to jet mid-state, again with assistance from good ol' JetBlue, for that gig for the Shiney Apple p.r. firm. Also picked up a mag gig this past sunday making an exuberant headshot for an editor. Midway through the sitting I put my camera to one side of my face and queried thusly Are you a nice editor or one of those hard-asses. He is, according to him, the latter. I know the type as I've been working for mags and the Press since the age of 13 or so, if we must count high school rags. Those micro-rags still have deadlines so it was probably at that tender age that I learned that deadlines are amorphous, that editors have bark and bite and as human a need as anyone else to stretch time to the max and have a few cocktails in the interim or posterim.
So back to school tomorrow for the ending of week 4.
Then on to week 3.
Have the digvid timeline down to the top ten. Ten, the most significant of numbers. As You should or will recall, Yours Truly emerged on the scene on the propitious date 10/10.

Love of Tens.

THIS JUST IN:
The finely-wrought format of epinw is such that a ThisJustIn is to appear at the end of blogposts. But. But this is way too. So, trotting out of school in a northerly fashion, I pass Valentino's, a deli, a shithole diner that nets probably $1or so millions from me and my cohorts. Thinking in a most efficient manner Hmm, should get some healthy thing to eat as who knows how long I'll be stranded in the Far Rocks, and grab a tofu and vegetable thing. A thing. Remember this word. So I get to JFK and, as I've changed days, times, itineraries, focus, etc. many times this summer I get the SSSSSSSSS treatment. This means Secondary Search. This is not what you want on your bp (that's coolhand frequent flyer lingo for a boarding pass, dig.) and then you and the other suspects are corraled into the S is for Special line. Moments before I see the SSSSSSSSS on the bp I begin to take a bite of deli sandwich. It tastes very . . . acrid. It is really stuck to its paper plate that it's wrapped against. I pry the sandwich off the plate and - lo & freakin' behold - it's COVERED in black mold. Not a smattering of mold. A full-throttle blanket of mold. A sandwich cosy of mold. I had had two bites. Bite number two I made come back out but bite number uno was floating down towards the stomach acids for efficient chemical deconstructing and such. So now there are mold spores in my tongue cells and the taste is quite . . . unforgettable. Now I'm going through Special Treatment Line. It's taking for forever. Finally I get to my last handler and I can't resist. (NB: I've already been quite mean to this little man telling him my bags are full of expensive electronics and I will carry them, etc. etc. etc.) So he's going through everything and then I say Want to hear something gRoSs? S is for Ssorg. So I tell him my sad culinary tale. His eyes widen, he's really digging the story. He asks if I have a sensitive nose, a sensitive palate. ? I say yes. So does his wife. I mean, fancy that. So he turns out to be a decent person and I tell him that I told him in case I spewed in his vicinity so he wouldn't tink it was due to Nerves - or Drugs. Then I tell him what's next on agenda: go over to food area and order what I determine to be the thing that will best cover taste of mold spores. After some quick analysis I determine (despite tomato allergy) it is pizza, full of more (non-moldy) vegetables and topped with about 1/8" of garlic powder.
I do feel sorry for the wi-fi-heads on either side of me at this juncture. But oh well, beats the sight of me vomiting black mold spores. Hey, reminds me of the book Christy Rupp recommended so many years ago that I love to quote from - Hot Zone.
I do not have ebola. I will never have ebola. Oooh, knock on wood.
Wooden Lovelettes.


It is not Friday, as previously thought by Yours Truly, but Thursday.
As I told a few: woke up Monday AM on plane to Shiney Apple and had no idea where I was when I lifted my weary head off of the tray table.
A Where AM I but on a plane. Cheese & Crackers.
Met with JR today about final edit of thesis snippets on the big timeline and he questioned a few. The establishing shot/moment as well as another on Met steps as the light is way different. Told him about the new Whitney shots and said I'd think about reshooting the steps about an hour before they close.
What does this really mean.
It really means that YT will be lugging two heavy bags again, not one heavy and one lighte. Laptop, hard-drive, camera, assorted cords, books, a tiny and random selection of attire.
Speaking of attire, there is a great green skirt in the Diesel store in Union Square, hanging just to the left as you walk in. This would make a great pre-graduation gift.
Thanks in advance and for Your attention in this matter.
So what did I shoot at the overly-secure/uptight Whitney.
Amongst other shots I snuck my digvid cam into a video viewing gallery and made a great shot of a woman who I believe was only in there to cool her jets so to speak. But she was ideal as she did not move one millimeter as the action on screen continues for many minutes. I can't say what show or what footage as what if some Whitney hack reads this, contacts Parsons School of Debunking and creates a ruckus.
There is another Whitneycentric shot of the stairwell, what I think is key to experiencing the joint. The dark and odd stairway that is two flights up per floor, with seating areas. I waited like a beer-soaked hunter in a blind for a moment and finally a woman came up the stairs and the edge of her hand is/was visible.
Eu-frea-re-kin-ka.
Now to capture, wedge it into the project, burn the dvd, get the scrim and projector, and dowels and wire and whatever hell else, hang the whole dang thang from a ceiling and write and research and defend dissertation.
Now to seminar, then to JFK.
You know, You know, what YT has dubbed the Guggenheim of the Far Rockaways, one of my branch offices.

Branches of Love.

Did not get the eBay item, the projector, as I was offline and missed a frenzy of last-minute bidding. Now I'm onto another auction and have also checked the universe for more used LCD projectors for digvid.
Before sleeping last night saw the lofty roomies - Dorota, Jason, Keren Ann. I told them how JR critiqued my apparent out-of-character summertime enthusing yesterday after our meeting of sorts. I informed him that I had finally found some supreme and school-related positivity and was expressing that amongst the required dourness of grad school thesis show preparations. Of course I'm stressed about this process but I am also determined to get the work done in a manner that allows for some enjoyable creativity and the serendipity I have in my working method.
Off shortly to the Whitney to do some shooting as I've been obsessed with an image that I'd like to add to the work for show.
Started using the browser Firefox by Mozilla for the vlogging and it really is better, stronger, faster (just like the $6,000,000 Man), just as those vloggers said it would be. If You have woes of internettal variety, do this.
Recently JW,Esq. suggested that Peet's Coffee had more chem oomph than Starbucks. I did not believe him. Gourmet Garage in SoHo just switched brands, swinging over to this left coast concoction. Halfway through my first disposable cup I thought OK, you win, and tossed it into one of those overstuffed wire municipal trash heaps.
After today, and then tomorrow's seminar, there are four more weeks of grad school.
And nine more plane rides to & fro.
And several more oodles of dollars spent.
And dozens of coffees slargled.
And scads more worrisome molecules unloosed into the general vicinity.
And then.
And then.

And then love.

John Massier, one of the curators at Hallwalls, sent me some good thoughts about digvid projecting, stating its become the paradigm of sorts but does the work scream for it. I'd argue it so does.
Especially now that I'm top bidder, no, sole bidder, on a fine used LCD video projector that I'm quite excited about and it so makes sense that I am hanging out at the Geek/Mac Clubhouse working on my vlog as the seats are as comfortable as my aeron chair, the wi-fi is tops, the a/c is maximus and the neurons fly quickly around all this wisdom.
The "studio" at the school is beyond laughable, a flimsy cubicle of some drywall and due to the communication snafu of mid-July somehow Pam and I are not with our classmates in a studio building on 13th Street but are the sole grad students located off the computer lab, in a former classroom. This is what Ivy League level tuition gets one in this city, at this school which promotes distance learning. But distance learning means just that, as I've said before, distance. And manytimes a distance student is treated accordingly. Witness above.
Sans furniture available around the "studio," and not wishing to pay more for furnishings after weekly travel, exorbitant tuition, other expenses, and really expressing my true ADD nature, I need several venues to make work (eschewing the "studio"). So I have a short list of joints and locations where I squat.
And, when it comes to wi-fi squatting, several factors are of utmost importance:
1. caffeine in vicinity.
2. bathrooms in vicinity.
3. honest-seeming people in vicinity so mutual quick babysitting of belongings can happen.
4. outlets are crucial.
5. comfortable chairs are crucial.
6. snacks are a bonus.
7. the wi-fi connection should be at least 50%, 75% is fab and 100%/four bars is dreamy.

Dreamy Love.

*correction of sorts*
Chris, another distance learner, is part of the adjunct studio space.
Note to self: scour building at 66 5th Ave. for 1 comfy chair + average small table.

You know how those inventors would always get electrocuted or accidentally shot or what have you and then after some deducing and calculations - voilà - hello patentable objet d'idea?
Well, today, I hopped aboard JFK's AirTrain and suddenly looked up from my reading and thought You know, this whole landscape is so different. Hmmmm. Calculations were quickly made. I noted that I was not heading towards Station A/Howard Beach but, rather, Station D. In lieu of the A the E was taken, zipping Yours Truly up around Queens and back down on the east side and then over to 8th Ave. Getting me to the school's general vicinity in a much quicker fashion. You see, mistaken happenstances can result in positive and cheering results. Never mind the part where I was trying to figure out the route of the speeding train from my incomplete micro-mini subway map and asking a woman who spoke no English but looked at me to suggest to me that she is one who is very wizened, with all sorts of calming hand gestures at her disposal and if in fact the goddamned transpo was going to get me to NYC any time soon but then secretly thinking Well, if not, no skewel and ojoy but then realizing that all good subways are essentially as looped as an NJP art vid.
So on to the good bits.
Went to a model call for hair. They said We like your hair, howzabout a cut in November.
I mean, really.
When I want a cut, a trim, a life-altering tonsorial wack I want it like so right NOW.
Met a fun gal in line with me and we discussed oso many things. And at some point Cocteau Twins were playing on the hi-fi and I recalled Jeez, I really like(d) them, why don't I listen to them ever.
The best post-salon-type thing was afterwards, call from the NYC p.r. firm that wants me to work with them again, this time in Rochester, NY. Sent them a proposal of sorts. Would mean jetting the hell outta the Shiney Apple for a quick jaunt over to the left again and then right again and then left again and repeat repeat until the MFA thing happens.
And then, and then, I will be once again able to be in the Shiney Apple as I see fit, on my own terms.
And that makes YT so very very thrilled.

Love Term.

The Middling City this weekend has been both the center of the annual eatathon downtown as well as a music fest of sorts at SoundLab. I attended the latter. Back then I would doc the feeding frenzy early in the day, usually hitting the chianti or was it sangria slushie booth at some slurpy point.
At SoundLab I set up the PowerBook (still miraculously working though I hear a haunting voice coming from the Genius Bar - Don't get too kocky, the mother board is craaaaacked...) and external harddrive to work on some art matters at hand. I commandeered a corner of one of the booths that features an electrical outlet in proximity, nestling in with two stranger boys from Ohio who had motored in solely to hear Tony Conrad perform. And it was great to see Tony, as usual, he's always personable, funny. Accompanying him onstage was a woman who played the church bells - three - but it was much more fun to say she was playing cowbells and to refer to her as Mississippi Queen. She had BladeRunner-esque eye shadow, a band of orangey pink across her eyes. Eremite thought she was hot. I think he is nuts. Afterwards directed Eremite's band to get to la maison and met them over there and got Eremite all hooked up with a snooze center. Nice to think the empty joint was being used, in a good manner. There was a party of sorts and Baumann was there momentarily, speeding off and announcing that he was going to pick up a new puppy. Long live the memory of Memphis, beloved Memphis, but it is time for him to have a new shaggedy companion. And I should probably offer up my auntie services to this new rascal.
Time to panic about having to leave for school again again again tomorrow AM. Wanting to change all the flights to a Thursday night exeunt as the flights are ALWAYS late and when late on a Friday the anxieties get too intense, especially when there's loads of work to be done on a Saturday. Appeals to JetBlue will happen again, to appeal to their sense of humanity and let the penalty fees slip slide away.

Sliding up Love.

Blame it on the Genius Bar.
Techie Jason urged me, after my laptop fiasco, to take the day off so to speak. Fearing that any wrangling of info on the laptop would result in smoke and flames and that horrid scent of burning electronics, I blogged and emailed on other computers placed here and there on the landscape.
Taking the advice emanating from the Genius Bar I skillfully avoided working on the thesis show timeline of digvids and instead walked the rather long walk to the movie theatre to see the Frenchie Elevator to the Gallows at that theatre way over to the east, past the Bouewerie (as they spelt it in the days of yore). Movie good. And the crowd was delightfully not full of popcorn munchers and the young guy in front of me even took his cellie outside the theatre to answer his calls. Amazing. Even at Film Forum you are coping with people arriving late, parking their arses wherever they can, crunching.
The movie is shadowy and Jeanne Moreau looks haunted and elegant throughout.
Following the shots of gai Paris I needed to have some vino - for who can participate in looking at gai Paris sans expression of the powers of Bacchus. Of adult possiblilties in the form of liquid inspiration and possible subsequent revelation.
So I headed to Rivoli, where I've had good luck with inspiration and revelation in the past.
I sat at the bar, reading old research papers and notes by Yours Truly. Even some poetry I had forgotten and some I did recall. In the readings of the research I realized it is not urban theorist Jane Jacobs I need to read but Lacan.
All about looking, The Gaze. If what I'm doing in my digvid Art work is studying loci of gazing, people moving throughout art spaces, I sure as hell need to read about the study and remarks of looking.
All right, enough of headiness, on to more rock & roll matters at hand.
Keren Ann, the francophile who also habitates the loft, meandered out of her room mid-song-write to say Hi to me and Jason (uhh, that'd be Duval, Jason Duval, the swain of Dorota - not the Mac store geek) who were hanging in the common area. She emerged with bottle of cognac in hand and a smoke. She shared the cognac and regaled us with a most happy story.
She had just been to Electric Ladyland to look into studio spaces and asked to see a storage area that was mentioned in passing. She persisted as they said it was nothing but she wanted to look.
In her French accent that is most beautiful and makes the heart pang for some long walks in France, she told us that she stepped into the room and told the man Music needs to be made in this room.
The man said that the room had been Jimmy's apartment.
Thee Jimmy.
Oh, come on, you know, Hendrix, fercrissakes.
So this is going to be her space.
Soon I am off to head up north to do some digvid shooting in art places as I have this vision that I want to see in the camera, on the computer.
Until then.

Electric Love.

THIS JUST IS:
AND YES, I AM SHOUTING.
I AM AT JFK. WHICH I LOVINGLY REFER TO AS THE GUGGENHEIM OF THE FAR ROCKAWAYS AND MY FLIGHT IS DELAYED ABOUT AN HOUR. IN LOVING PROTEST I AM SINGING ALL TOMORROW'S PARTIES WITH HEADPHONES IN PLACE UNTIL THE PLANE NOT ONLY ARRIVES, PARKS AT GANGPLANK, BUT HAS US ALL MERRILY NESTLED INTO OUR GENEROUSLY-PROPORTIONED SEATS OF LEATHER. OH, ONE MORE DEMAND. WE ALL GET THE SNAZZY NEW LEATHER HEADPHONES FOR FUH-REE, NO DOLLAR REQUIRED. SHE'LL TURN ONCE MORE TO SUNDAY'S FLOWER AND DIE BEHIND THE DOE.

I mean really.
Sometimes I do surprise myself.
I have scouted out numerous, excellent spots for reading and wi-fi reportage at Parsons School of De/de/de but this nouveau spot really surpasses the others. And, just in case you are a fellow student, I refrain from GPS specifics.
The good news.
I arose at 5AM today (that is like so not the good news) to be at the Apple Store in SoHo at 530, at the advice of Mr. Security Man just on duty for his third shift manning the portal. He advised Yours Truly thusly: Get here then for a line will begin at 6 - AND I like my coffee extra light with two sugars. Thought: how NYer of you. So I arose, I trekked, I got his coffee for Karma's sake and entered the joint. I said I have your coffee. He said Oh, I was kidding. I said Well, this is for the sake of Karma, it'll bring me some Luck.
I wait a while and then speak to Jason at the Genius Bar who looks very grave when I explain how the PowerBook tumbled last night. All the other Geniuses begin to look on at the tragic scene. He begins careful analysis, advising me at some point to get another machine. That's when I had my comicbook moment and felt the colour drain from my once-pleasant, now early-AM and tech-addled face.
He tries one more thing.
He removed the sad little 12" PowerBook's battery and futzes.
Jason says Your Airport card was half out.
More futzing and then and then and then
he gets the fucking thing to turn on.
ON!
2x more and then I am ecstatic and then met with his cautiousness, telling me that he thinks the Logic Board or Mother Board may be cracked, to back up my entire iLife on an external HD as one day the PowerBook might just have had enough.
We are on shaky terrain, me and the PowerBook.
Not me and Jason, for I hardly know the guy. We said our goodbyes and I left, telling Mr. Security the somewhat good news.
Then on to floating through the streets until The Shiney Apple sprung back to fruition for another day.
Back to seminar.
Back to the odd reality of school.
I wrote in my notebook:
At what point do I tell the others that this was all, this past twenty-six months, for a story I am doing. An expose.

Exposed. Love.

For the love of Godot, the vlog project (and that IS pronounced PRö-JECT, fercrissakes) is fraught with one tech/geek complication or fiasco after another. Not to inundate You with all sorts of miasmic lingua geeka but Yours Truly not having the slammin'est v. of Final Cut means no simple exporting to compressor to make all the pixel molecules all tight and slow and tiny so that any Tom, Dick, Harry, Evelyn can watch the goddamned digvids I pump out for grad school explorations and such at the click of a button. Deepest sigh. Onwards.
I have the URL anyhow, if that is any consolation to YT, and, really, it is nice to feel there's a launch (or crash) pad of sorts but then. Where are the goods.
www.njpdigvid.blogspot.com
When You arrive there just might be virtual orange safety cones, a flagman, some smoke, maybe a little bright flame, some confusion. Under construction, if you will.
Next week is the week slated that I am to have a happy reunion with my camp friend Elba Rosa Cruz whom I have not seen in a long while. Who I shared many et al and hi-jinxed moments deep in the dense woods of Maine.
And this is a public query for JW,Esq. who may or may not be in this neck of the woods. It is now or soon and this space following is to say Call, don't be a stranger, see you on a nearby barstool, etc.
Got a fabulosic phonecall today from a politico's right hand inquiring if I'd like to in fact work again with an AD from NYC who I hit it off with, was it okay to pass along the number. Umm, yup.
There were several who bemoaned the fact that YT did not have an annual hoopla rich in pyros for the wack holiday that happened yesterday.
Mark these words:
Once the grad school experiment (lovingly heretofor ref'd as the GSE) is kapoof things will be changing dramatically. And I do mean drama, a return to Perfect basics, sans the financial cloud of tuition, travel, books, pencil expenses, what am I forgetting.
Dramatical.
As the colleague says, Can't wait for the old NJP to resurface.
She's swimming back to the shores of what is lovingly sometimes referred to as non-GSE reality.

GSE Love.
Sure, yes.

Missed their Friday night gig at the Middling City's famed Nietzsche's but got to see them, the men of Vinnie Barbarino Experience, at yesterday's rock and roll wedding at the landmark downtown = Shea's.
During their soundcheck I was most disappointed to not see oversized 'fros and Timmo's lime green suit. When they truly began, after the dinner/pre-first dance there they were, all gussied up. They were a little decibled for the wedding majority but many danced to their set list of wedding clichés.
Shea's is now redubbed The Wonder Theatre.
Read a wall plaque about its founder, Mr. Shea, who was raised in my post-industrial and hardscrabble neck of the MC woods. Somehow he turned his OFW and iron worker smarts into theatre love and building and such. I imagine that his ol' OFW pals must have hid in bushes and beat the pansy-assed crap out of him for giving up roughnecking for velvet seats. But this is just a working theory.
So, for the wedding, contrary to what I discussed with my Boy Colleague Advisor, busted out the new rig and experienced the sometime joy that we photogs experience when working a perfect new, full-throttle machine.
As the BCA says, It's sick.
The pastor at the wedding looked like he could have been a brother of David Byrne - same height, same black limpid eye pools. He introduced himself as Pastor Mike. Pastor Mike was a bit intense, he was very pleasant and pseudo-easy-going until I asked The Position Question. How will they be standing, where will you be standing, Pastor Mike. And then explained to him that, according to my calculations I'd like to be standing behind him. Pastor Mike's face changed. I've seen this Man of Cloth Facial Change before and I am ready, armed with cool reason and an internal version of Paint Melt Stare.
You know, Nancy, weddings are sacred . . .
(thought bubble *are you fucking kidding me, get over your self Pastor Mike*)
. . .
Shot from behind him and he never knew a thing.
Later, during the eat time, he wandered over towards me and this would be the point where he'd sidle and complain, post-act. But instead he surprised me whilst drinking a diet cola.
You look so alone over here.
(*shudder*)
Just taking a bit of a break, Pastor Mike.
Onwards.
Time to head to the suburbs for back-to-back gigs and then more more more.

Back-to-back love.

What is now:
Perfect Yours Truly nestled into her favoured wi-fi hotspot at JFK, after a day of school and a plunge into the big-boy world of super duper mega supra pixels. And, as is his wont, heard from Spending Guru as I was trekking the final last long block towards B&H - post JR meet-up. I said to him Do you realize that since I've known you there was only one time I went to B&H without getting a call from you. It's a serendipitous tradition if ever there could be one.
Special thought:
I truly believe everyone, and I do mean every one of You, should have as the first song selection on your iTunes, should you have iTunes, be Bad Co's Good Lovin' Gone Bad for I can think of no better song to begin laptop projects, work and art.
Speaking of art, I've been accepted into two groups - a discussion group for vlogs and a group of artists who make the same. More groups and I am so not a grouper.
Glancing up at the pair of JetBlue-approved monitors I see ESPN is broadcasting footage of athletes attacking photogs of all genres - on the right a live shot of a pickup truck on a so-called rampage, driving à la OJ down some highway. I find the footage on the left disturbing, as I feel it's shown as comedic sidebar, another slap at the trade and the rights of any journalist shooting a celeb in a public place.
Time to further investigate and delve into vlog world as I'm at JFK with an extra 25 minutes of wait time.

Love Waits for No One.

Special blogpost for patchouli oil wearers who ride airplanes.
(I think You can see where this is heading.)
Airplanes are small capsules (petri dishes of sorts) with repumped air. Twist open the overhead vent device over your seat and all that is whizzing out is more of the same repumped matter. Add your patchouli oil to the mix and you have one big hippie olfactory luvv fest, unasked for by your fellow travelers. You love that shit, 99.9% of the rest of the planet does not.
Spare us, slather yourself upon arrival, share this woody scent with your familiars.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
Sitting in a borrowed studio waiting the arrival, the studio visit, of Anthony, my former advisor here at Parsons. To show him what's what with the digvids.
Sparing You the concurrent commentary track, in a gesture of diplomacy, restraint and such.
Such love.

+ +
This just in:
Always needing a side project of sorts made an executive decision at roughly 3PM this very day to create a vlog, the video twin of epinw, if you catch my geeked-out drift.
I should link it from epinw but let us see what in hell is premierly entailed in streaming &c and then, secondly, how in hell it looks.
Middling City happy vibes amassed evaporated with each passing Parsons minute forging onwards, only six school weeks to go.

With a slightly-failed and collaborative mehendi up my right leg I blog.
The Artvoice Street Fest was fun, breezed in with Kennedy to see Medeski Martin and Wood and some pals to boot.
Added bonus was seeing The Ramrods on a much more humble stage near the liberry with Bill Scott, thee Bill Scott, up there doing his charismatic vocals thing. And, as is de rigeur with his frontmanship, there were entanglements of chords, and near spills. All in all a good time.
Hung in Kunji's booth, this is where the slightly-failed and collab mehendi comes in, and decided to give the primitive body-marking process my annual whirl. It began as sort of a floral motif with a long stem. Seeing my hesitation Allen grabbed the squeezey bottle and added my iconic bumble bee, some other items as well as the initials of Yours Truly. He felt this handiwork may have caused the loss of a few potential customers. One teen was getting some symbol, maybe sanskrit, but who the fuck can say for sure if it indeed meant peace or whatever, I showed her my leg and said Don't you want THIS instead, it's number 43. She looked pained, wanting to be polite yet visibly thinking Yikes, no, not that assemblage.
As we left the scene Government Mule was warbling out their Southern Rock into the chasm that is the Middling City's Main Street. And there was a 'subway' sighting.
Always a thrill, it eking past, empty.

Thrills of Love.

Left Cheryl's demi-sunny garden mere moments ago sufficiently caffeinated and such. She is en route with Liz to a rally for Garden Walk. Would Yours Truly invite the general public to meander through my garden, if it were in a less-industrialized neck of the woods. I think not.
May hop into Artvoice's pro bono Middling City showcase street fest a bit later as Medeski Martin and Wood are playing and Kunji and Allen just phoned to see if I'd be stopping by her mehendi boof where she imprints (usually) ladies with time-honoured henna paste leaving behind designs nouveau arte and whimsical. I usually mehendi myself at her stand, squeezing out a semi artful blob that lasts for about a week. Speaking of body markings shot a bike race yesterday and spotted a guy with a hideous photo-realist tattoo of what I assumed was his beloved and departed german shepherd, regaling most of his shoulder.
The Middling City feels more humid than the Shiney Apple and I am enjoying the space of it all until mid-week when I jet back to school for a few seminars - will be showing and telling new work on Wednesday to the shrink et al.
Seedlings replanted at Kennedy's warble out of the ground, and mine own is jam-packed with the regular perennials and Extra excitedly tells me how happy he is that the cat mint proliferates. At least twice during the summer I spot him lolling amonst its fragrant leaves, getting all wacked out and when he notes I'm watching his debauchery he stares in wide-eyed panic and splits.
Time to water the cat mint et al.

Minty fresh love.

Beth Dearest and Yours Truly this early afternoon did the girlie version of playin' the nines, and this is an exciting brand new conceptual development spun out whilst waiting once again in the concrete luvv of (no, not the Guggenheim... but close) JFK airport. Playin' the nines, girlie stylee, means tossin' out the angst con brio, then there's a counter toss, and so on and so forth until you've walked several long city blocks, whipping each other into a frenzy of purge, anxiety building to fever heat and then
*P O O O F *
it goes away. Usually. Nines over. Misery quelled, time to move on to fuckin', much-deserved FUN.
Armed as usual with anti-fellow-traveler devices: earplugs, iTunes, laptop, mags, liquids, and, most important, a don't-fuck-with-me-NO-don't-even-look-at-me aura. No, scratch that, it's more the aura of ignoration, ignoring fellow travellers. High on pet peeve list: those who apparently haven't travelled in the last half decade, astonished that they must show picture id, take shoes off, de-jacket, etc. Those who (come to think of it, just like tourists on Broadway in SoHo) move in slo-mo to come to halts for no apparent reason. Time to plane.

Plane ol' Love.

This just in:
JFK is playing REM's At My Most Beautiful over the creaky p.a. - heard in this joint before and still a surprising choice for sonic vibe control.
Sonic Vibe Control, one more amazing band name by YT.
This also just in:
Liz tells me that epinw is linked from her own blog and I'll be dang-blamed, it is like so true.

So, here's what the shrink had to say about the work of Yours Truly. After my illuminating and oso brief description of what It is (moments of people moving through art spaces as well as of industrial spaces).
He said, and I paraphrase:
Well, I see the connection, industrial spaces are oftentimes transformed into art spaces so there is a parallel. He (Mark, the Brit) went on with such beautiful clarity I made mental notes all over the place as there he was spouting forth a grand thesis statement, a raison d'etre et art if You will.
At some point Mark was speaking of the mango. The mango. I wrote this down. Now, after decades of shooting and witnessing great rock moments I sometimes mis-hear the world. So, the mango. It was after some careful calculations that I determined it was not a mango he was speaking of but a main goal.
Voi-freakin-là.
After class Beth and I meandered in an out of three bookstores, including The Strand where David Sedaris was to read from his newest book. We did not stay as I've seen his schtick before and there were more books to find in other places.
Time to return the XL1 to Parsons School of Destinations and then witness great moments in art past before meeting with Mark the Shrink again for more elucidations.

Lucid Love.

Dorota just made her patented jet fuel and soon it will be time to ka-zing out of the loft and drift through the streets before our class meets collectively with a - dig this - shrink. I like telling people that Parsons has supplied us with a shrink for it sounds like so new age yet parental and proactively imbued in quirk.
Last night, whilst waiting for Justin at the usual designated meeting joint, Sweet and Vicious, met a guy named Peter who was waiting for approx fifty to be showing for a bon voyage celebration. We talked over the din of a table of guys getting redder in faces celebrating a b-day. He intrigued greatly as he runs a super-swingin' p.r. firm and I'm sitting there with all my fab skill of write thinking Buddy, you have NO idea that you're sitting next to your next copy writer. Yet.
Just checked out his website and it's rather subdued, not very flash.
The evening evolved into a spot in Brooklyn named Floyd. As in Pink. But not.
Saw all the gang and it was a treat.
Time to wend, not to spend, to learn and be learned.
Missing Kennedy greatly.

Missing Love.

One productive meeting with JR down, one thesis show to go.
Just did a show + tell for about 1.5 hours, showing Jim all the new things - the highs, the lows, the dodgey experiments, the curios, the cinematic triumphs. And for the triomphes cinématiques a rare epinw exclamation point. !
Dropping major baggage (literally, not figuratively) at loft before wending my way uptown to get inspired. Read: look.
After a while I will socialize with schoolies and others on the A list.

A listed Love.

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.