Tuesday, April 18, 2006

I've had a few good days recently.
Nothing really occurred other that a void left by relatively low work hours.
An awkward short film will likely be made based upon some of this activity. Good times.
Saturday was pleasantly free of deadlines. Biltmore Press doesn't operate on weekends. The Inn on Biltmore Estate (no relation) had me working a short day shift, one I abandoned early. It is important not to let your jobs confine you. Some days the schedule is wrapped so tightly. Then other days opportunities reveal their shiny golden heads. I yank them from the womb of the future. Whoa that is sickening. Sorry. (Kind-of)
Upon exiting the estate I took a sharp left. The first road out. It runs parallel to Biltmore Ave. and is the fastest route home. David Bowie sang to me from the speakers in my mothers purple ford.

"She finds the slinky vagabond
He coughs as he passes [in his mom's] Ford [Taurus]"

That doesn't quite work as well does it? I'll keep my creative license away from Bowie songs.

Once home I take a moment to collect myself. Lou and Jack were there. We sat in Jack's room and shot projectiles out into the world through his window. A video camera recorded our actions as we harassed passers-by with our waving.
I developed a yearning for chocolate. We decided to take a visit to The Chocolate Fetish. It too was documented.
We purchased one dozen truffles. Quite a sum at two dollars a piece. It only seems right that they go to a deserving person or perhaps twelve deserving people. This was the time to embrace a new mission.
Lou, Jack and I exited the chocolatier's shop and began to look for those who we deemed deserving of our newly acquired commodity. But what makes a person worth the such gifts.
Do they have to be pretty?

Must they be bright?

How about a hobo.

Or maybe a overworked waitress.

Who are we to even decide?

There were a few proposals. We settled on footwear.

Red shoes, socks and sandals. Only they would receive our decadent goodies.

Then we decided we would also give them to anyone else. Especially pretty people. But first we ate a few ourselves. Mine was very spicy. It made the back of my throat burn for a few minutes. We ate chocolate on Wall Street and it was a magical affair.
After the three of us felt satiated we began to hunt for lucky individuals. Sadly, no red shoes, socks or sandals were plodding along our fair Asheville streets that day. I actually felt disappointment. We drove to Tunnel road in a attempt to broaden our search. There are a few people that work in that area who I suspected may have red shoes on. No, not hookers. Although if we ran into red shoed night-walkers they wouldn't be excluded.

We three once again were shot down. No one was home.

Lou was thirsty. We had been walking around quite a bit. The Target was just up the hill a bit so we went to the retailer for liquid sustenance. David Bowie was still singing.
Target has surprisingly few resources when it comes to refreshment that doesn't involve bulk sugar water. Rather that act rationally and go somewhere else we catapulted ourselves into oblivion. We left the store with five Drumstick Icecream cones, one ginger ale and six "real fruit" frozen lime bars. They are really really really green. The ginger ale was declared to be the "worst one in the world". Sharing it together lifted a great weight off universal soda-karma. I guess you could say it was our duty to rid the world of such unspeakable Canada Dry.
We sat in front of the store debating on whether or not our current actions qualified as loitering. I thought that because we are consuming items purchased on the property in the parking lot of the property we are qualified business supporters or perhaps at worst just frivolling goofballs.

I was wrong.
loiter Pronunciation Key - (loi tr)
intr.v. loi·tered, loi·ter·ing, loi·ters
To stand idly about; linger aimlessly.

We were loitering. Ice cream isn't even mentioned in the definition and the consumption of it offers little to no legal protection.
Soon we departed in my mother's purple ford taurus.
I an effort to find a good place to drink the worst ginger ale in the world and eat our melting icy treats We drove down to the river. On the stoop of the now decrepit Ice warehouse we consumed more than our fair share of dessert.
Then we tried to skip rocks and throw stones as far as possible.
Mosquitoes are emerging from the river. Every mud puddle was crawling with spindle-legged insects who only now may be strong enough to fly. There were thousands. Not a one wearing red shoes.

That night there was a art show. Polaroid photography, puppets, photo-booth activities and of course booze. I called Lina and she seemed interested. She joined the misadventure squad at la casa de tres amigos. Her shoes were gold but she got chocolate anyway. It was a Bitter-sweet symphony.
The show started at 8:00pm but we arrived at 9:00pm. It's located in "the new art space behind Harvest Records", of west Asheville fame. The photographs are probably still hanging. The corn liqueur and photo-booth are not going to be there though.
The artist didn't make himself know. He would weave in and out of conversations and looked no different than most of his guests. That is something that I choose not to do but for him it work without discord.

A photo of the artist and I.

We have some similarities in the tilt of our head and generalized scruffiness.
He's wearing a fanny pack. I'm the one the the wookie pelt sash.

His photographs ranged from good to disappointing. Some of them struck at my sentimental cords while others felt like a more simple documentary of the willingly bohemian. It is the difference between taking a portrait of a person and capturing their style and taking a picture of the persons state of mind. Two interested me enough to purchase them. A vertical nameless diptych. I called it 'the mother's' photos. Dorothea Lange yanked on my organs. His price was ten dollars. I payed thirteen. Who knows when they will be ready.
It got quite late. Lou jumped into the folk band playing just outside the door. The man plays a mean washboard. Lina wandered around. I can't really tell what she is thinking most of the time. We all enjoyed the space bag wine... and the moonshine. Jack and I talked about film with other show-goers. Brazil, the Asheville Movie, others.
Someone asked if we were "artsy". I can never answer that question satisfactually.
So I didn't.

We departed with elation. It was fun.

At the apartment we had rum and more wine. A combination that usually leads to sword-fights. I stabbed Jack in the face with a fencing foil. He is fine but his lip bled a little. I apologized. Perhaps I should give him some chocolate when i get home. We all agreed to wear helmets next time.
Next we boxed in the living room. Lina vs. Jack. Me vs. Jack. Lou vs. Me and so on until we got tired.
The bed was a welcomed environment after all that.
I need more time off from work.
Later on today I will post images of selected new photographs.
Twelve recently developed rolls.

That reminds me.
The other eight need developing.

Hrm... expensive.


Blogger fairclavicle said...

owning red shoes alone is a treat. I have three pairs I'm happy to say. And when it rains, my white socks turn pink.

10:18 PM  

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