Festival

"Cinema," you say? Well, then where are the lovely images, the elegant stills, the vividly candid photos hinting at a silver screen? And then I say, "they're processing." (both in nature and on film).

Like silent film, often my most poignant memories are pictures that exist sans dialogue. They are instead collective particles branded into my mind via sights, coupled with sounds, maybe married to body language, effected by temperature and executed or not judging on whether Mercury is in retrograde . . .

For me, this past weekend was a film, a few shorts, steeped in sensory overload. I say this with gratitude and only wish you could see this little personal movie that I live, that is all my own. It's so much more than the daily me. Complete with a fine motley crew of characters, histories resurrected, swirls of pleasant, perhaps pungent and occasionally offensive scents, many a salty tear and sweet, sweet dreams (to identify a select few), this little life I get to call my own, is precious . . . thanks to you. I know I can thank YOU, because you are one of maybe three people reading this text, silently demanding pictures, but willfully here to assist in witnessing the short days I inhabit, punctuated by melancholies, mishaps, melodies and pure loveliness via text and imagery.

Hope you enjoy each feature presentation.