I gave up on Twitter early on, as MizShoes is unable to contain herself to a mere 140 characters and spaces and moved on to Facebook. Deceptively fun to be around, dangerously easy to talk to, Facebook was like cocaine. I have always prided myself on my non-addictive personality; my ability to say enough. So today, I turned off my Facebook account and said, no more. If I have something to mutter aloud, I can mutter in my virtual living room, and not on the train, if you know what I mean. I wanted to embed a video here, a clip of Peter Weller as Buckaroo Banzai, the scene where he utters the immortal line: “The deuce, you say.”, but alas, such is beyond my Google-fu to find.

See you around.

Constant readers of this blog, both of you whom are left after this long hiatus, will remember that after that Terrible, Horrible Thing happened at the end of last season, Miz Shoes vowed that she had quit Tyra and could quit the unholy troika of Heidi, Michael and NinaGarcia, too. 

Well, MizShoes tried to quit them, but in the event, she has been watching and not recapping all along. And here is what MizShoes thinks about this season. It has sucked. Who or what is Clinque Counter Josh, but the Straight From Central Casting prettier, flamboyantly queenier, bitchier and stunningly less talented (and that was a mighty low bar, bucko) version of the Insufferable Jeffrey the Pin-Headed Schmoo?

These contestants are merely contestants or actors and not one of them has done anything worth remembering, at least in terms of design and craftsmanship. Wasn’t Bryce the same person as the Autistic Yet Talented One on the rip off show about the search for America’s next top visual artist? For that matter, wasn’t Falene the same person as the Woman Who Had Taxidermied Unborn Fawns? The judging, which has always been erratic at best, has become…Well damned if the loquatous Miz Shoes can come up with an adequate word for that pitiful panel.

No, all in all, MizShoes doesn’t think this show is worth the free airwaves it’s broadcast over.

So, I’m sitting at my spinning wheel in the South Miami Farmers Market last Saturday (World Wide Spin In Public Day, which, while not to be found in the Hallmark section, does occur) bonding with a stranger over the concept of centering and how one cannot force it.

She told me about her college days in the ceramics studio, spending endless hours at the wheel and never being able to center, walking away for a few weeks or months, coming back and having the clay fall in place in her hands, effortlessly. Yep, I said, twist is like that, it either flows or it doesn’t.

I just finished rereading Robert Silverberg’s “Lord Valentine’s Castle” and there is a passage, early in the book, where Valentine is about to juggle for the first time. It captures the very essence of what we seek, we who spin on a wheel, be it clay or fiber or ourselves on the edge of this spiral arm.

“We will teach you basics, one small thing at a time. Juggling is a series of small discrete motions done in quick sequence, that give the appearance of constant flow and simultaneity. Simultaneity is an illusion, friend, when you are juggling and even when you are not. All events happen one at a time.” Sleet smiled coldly. He seemed to be speaking from ten thousand miles away. “Close your eyes, Valentine.

Orientation in space and time is essential. Think of where you are and where you stand in relation to the world.”

Valentine pictured Majipoor, mighty ball hanging in space, half of it or more than half engulfed by the Great Sea. He saw himself standing rooted at Zimroel’s edge with the sea behind him and a continent unrolling before him, and the Inner Sea punctuated by the Isle of Sleep, and Alhanroel beyond, rising on its nether side to the great swollen bulge of Castle Mount, and the sun overhead, yellow with a bronze-green tint, sending blistering rays down on dusty Suvrael and into the tropics, and warming everything else, and the moons somewhere on the far side of things, and the stars farther out, and the other worlds, the worlds from which the Skandars came and the Hjorts and the Liimen and all the rest, even the world from which his own folk had emigrated, Old Earth, fourteen thousand years ago, a small blue world absurdly tiny when compared to Majipoor, far away, half forgotten in some other corner of the universe, and he journeyed back down across the stars to this world, this continent, this city, this inn, this courtyard, this small plot of moist yielding soil in which his boots were rooted, and told Sleet he was ready.

I am depressed. Clinically, one supposes. I am spinning in place, with so many projects and ideas in my head, but too few hours in each day, and too little energy to create in the ones available to me to do so. I want to blog, but about what? Does anyone really want to hear me whine about such first world problems?

I am depressed about the political climate in my country. Are these shit-flinging chimps really viable presidential candidates? Have we, as a nation, completely lost the power of critical thinking, the ability to understand nuanced thought and complex concepts? (Don’t answer that. It was a dispirited, and jaundiced, rhetorical question.)

I am depressed about what used to be my career and is now reduced to a mere job, something I do eight hours a day to pay the bills. Although I am dangled carrots, I know them to be nothing more than carrots on a string, to be snatched away when I believe them to be within my grasp.

I am depressed about, well, everything.

This summer is speeding by in a haze of good times had with good friends: all back-lit and golden and soft-focus, like a cheesy beer ad aimed at the demographic of late-season baby boomers, or you know, me and my peers. In any event, we have been having a blast, fueling it with a soundtrack of girl groups, rockabilly, bar bands and tiki/exotica. We started with the Hukilau, and Miz Shoes is here to testify that she is now deeply, truly in love with Grinder Nova. UNO MAS TEQUILLA! We were joined by the Fabulous Flamingos, and in the event, the Hukilau proved to be more fun than any of us had imagined, and we all have great imaginations. One of the highlights of the weekend was meeting MeduSirena, who has reawakened my childhood obsession with

dream of becoming a mermaid. There is going to be a lot more sequined tail in Miz Shoes future.

The following weekend, we left for the annual left coast week. This is a ritual gathering of our pod (to steal MeduSirena’s term). Most of us are women of a certain age who have been friends for either half or all of our lives, depending. We gather on the beach to soak up the sun, reconnecting with our selves and each other, and admitting to our group our alpha male, the Renowned Local Artist. He demures, but he is.

This year found us gathered for the Summer Solstice, and we were crones, practicing great healing magic on the one who needed it most. We swam in the Gulf; we were mermaids and we sang our siren song to the RLA. We ate communal meals and rendezvoused with friends, Total Wine and the world’s best GoodWill store.

And now it’s time to pile up the towels and blast the sound track: it’s time for the annual tank wars and bbq/pool party.

Well, this sucks. The Big Man has gone to the great gig in the sky. He himself believed that we pass from this form into the pure white light, and if anyone ever did or does, then Clarence Clemons would be that one. Clarence was the heart and soul of the E-Street band, and I cannot imagine how the show will go on without him. To all my friends in the E-Street nation, I send you love and light. To anyone who ever saw him live, I tell you that you were blessed. To those who knew the Big Man personally, I cannot imagine the depths of your loss, and do not presume that my words could be of any comfort at all, but I offer them anyway.

The size of the hole he leaves in this world is immense, as immense as his talent, as immense as his soul.