It was a weekend of walking.
Not so much that I did a lot of walking as it was that I was walking, period. Lurching, Frankenstein’s monster style, around the house. Staggering stylishly down the streets, chrome-capped cane in hand. Not the jaunty gallivanting steps of which I am known for, no. But steps, you know? Steps.
My left leg, glad to be walking again, has been trying to take large, impressive strides, while my right leg still doesn’t seem to understand the whole “walking” thing, preferring to be dragged behind like a deadweight. It’s difficult to get these guys syncronised, but I’m making progress. One step in front of the other, on step at a time.
I’m just happy to be off the crutches, really.
This past weekend was Wizard World Philadelphia, and as such was the first one I have not attended since 2005. My mobility, while exciting and impressive, is not quite up to a day of conventioning. And to be honest, neither is my wallet. I spent Saturday in proper convention style, however, working on costumes. While a broken sewing machine looks to be keeping me from finishing that 15ft cape I’ve been working on, all the other costume elements seem to be falling into place.
Sunday was spent with JR’s wonderful family, taking in a production of Berlioz’s Requiem put on the by the Philadelphia Orchestra. JR’s father sings with the Orchestra, and always a treat to hear him perform. I admit, I was a little distracted during the performance—blame the ankle—but snapped back to attention the moment the soloist began—FROM BEHIND US. Berlioz was big on using the entire performance space to it’s utmost, and having a voice above and behind belt out “Holy, holy,” well, it puts one in the mind of angels. Which, I imagine, was the point.
Altering ones expectations of how art should be presented was a theme of Sunday. That morning was spent frantically searching through a recently arrived copy of J.C. Hutchins’s opus Personal Effects: Dark Art, and calling all the phone numbers. More than the credit cards and papers and photos that come with the book, the phone numbers drive home the immersive quality the book was going for to me. Perhaps it’s just the voyeur in me. Who can resist going through and listening to other people’s phone messages? The book’s worth it’s weight in gold for that alone.
Sunday’s experiences have got me thinking about my own art, the in-progress novel, and how to enhance it’s presentation. ‘Course, I’ve got to finish thing first. One step in front of the other, one step at a time.
