Elizabeth Taylor in Iran, by Firooz Zahedi, now at LACMA

Each morning at 6:20, the woman upstairs moves her wooden chair across her wooden floor just enough to make a sound loud enough to wake me.  This morning was no exception in that regard.  It’s what I learned from CNN just afterward that is exceptional, and exceptionally numbing.

I’ve known of Elizabeth Taylor since I was old enough to understand that there was a mythological woman somewhere, in Hollywood, whose eyes were actually lavender. I think we all knew she wouldn’t keep Michael waiting long.

For a quake of this magnitude, the obit in Variety is really the only chorus.  Angels sing thee to your rest, Elizabeth Taylor.