Art Rules!

Okay, okay. I'll give you a little more to go on, though, really, I do think that sometimes there are no words needed, especially when one has many many photographs to play with. I am not going to go into gory details, but I have not been having the easiest couple of weeks, and I am not in the mood to discuss it. So let's just leave that by the wayside. Don't be emailing me with sympathetic whathaveyou. It's nice and all, but I don't need it, and I don't really want it. I'm in one of those moods. Everybody who knows that kind of mood, raise your hands and grumble in chorus. Very good! Now let's hear the same thing, only in Swahili this time.

Anyway, the city continues to give me its little difficulties (nothing major on that score; it's not the city's fault) and also its little gifts to try and cheer me up. I got two large boxes of $1 strawberries today. In March. Yes, that is my neighborhood telling me it still loves me. Just ask it.

"I'm gettin' hungry. Peel me a grape!" - if that line doesn't reverberate gorgeously in your chest, you clearly haven't heard Shirley Horn's recording of it.

Again, I seem to be running out of words. There is always the temptation to just shift into the abstract and be a purely visual creature. My friends tend to be artists, so they don't mind when I do that. And we all kind of look at each others' work and dig. But here, as in my professional life, I am expected to sling the Big Big Verbiage, phthwap! onto the page, and make with the grand pronouncements. I guess I just get tired and long for a damn pencil after a while, preferably the colored kind.

But let's see what mundanities I can ply you with. I've been quietly buzzing along on Snow White, though I've reached a point in it where I really need to email the designer and ask her if I can put the increases closer together to allow for my royal shortness of torso, or whether that will Frack the Math.

Speaking of Frack, there are mere weeks until the return of BSG, to which I am looking forward, despite its having jumped the shark to some degree a couple of seasons ago.*

End vhat else? as anyone's Yiddish grandmother might say.

There are no boys to speak of, which is perhaps just as well, since my body is currently far too broken to have much fun with them, had I them available to have much fun with. I am writing lots of poetry, which, now that I think of it, often coincides with a void in the boy department. So there's that. What is bad for the sex life and bad for the blog is good for art. So screw everything else. Art rules.

*Nota bene: Please don't be emailing me correcting my spelling of frack after you've followed the link to the sci fi channel. There should be a goddamned "c" in there.

Later additions...

From Band of Brothers: The tale of the Battle of the Bulge, as it is told today, is of (Gen.) Patton's army coming to the rescue of the encircled 101st Airborne division.

No member of the 101st has ever agreed that the division needed to be rescued.

From the back of my napkin at the bar last Sunday:

In the candle a hand
beat like a heart
and she heard nothing
but the drums
in her eyes
The sand rained
like a scratchy fog

and still the shells
fell, and helmets
ripped like cotton drawers.

In the end his hands were
small brown birds
that she let go.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. all rights reserved. usual threats apply. hey, that goes for the photos, too.