First day back day-errand day-missing my child palpably day-silence at home is deafening day-need to stay in and relax day. The intensity of my recent workdays...fully charged on all fronts-I’ve been “on” for three weeks and the downtime this weekend will do me good. It’s just such a rapid decrease in cycle speed and inputs than my previous three weeks have delivered. There was a time after my marriage ended that I would not under any circumstances come home until bedtime-I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.
I travel a couple of days next week but the manic coast to coast barnstorming is over for 2009. What I really have missed more than anything these past three weeks is extended time with LFG. This is one of my favorite pictures. I love bald headed babies and LFG was such a sweet little lump at six months. Blue eyes wide open all the time. She remained a baldy until almost two.
LPC asked me to “deconstruct” the horizontal striped sock thing and I told her I would. I now need to say without equivocation that I cannot. All I can do is offer a couple of historical examples of horizontal hosiery cognoscenti and then cop out on further erudition regarding its genesis and rationale.
I can speak clearly to my dilettante-ish behavior that includes horizontal stripes mainly because my pathos’ aren’t complex and I’m a redneck. Pretty much splains why I have such items here in Casa Minimus. I like to be a bit edgy-dubious-obtuse and horizontal stripes just sweeten that mélange nicely.
G.K. Chesterton wore them as evidenced in his Vanity Fair caricature. He was a renowned apologist but obviously didn’t apologize for wearing striped socks and slippers. Chesterton was a big boy too. Shhh…if anyone is “up-there” and listening-it’s Gilbert Keith. He and Jesus were tighter than a fat girl’s socks.
The world’s most famous house guest wore them as well. I think that woman-Mrs. Simpson-put some kind of Kama Sutra-Eleven Knob Back Buddy juju on him that precipitated the abdication. Why would you give up Buckingham Palace for that? Additionally-it wasn’t exactly a zero sum decision. He could have had Buckingham Palace and all of that Kama Sutra Back Buddy stuff too….. Ok, I’ll just stop right here. Jesus and Gilbert Keith are witnessing me write this. Shhhhh. Shut up.
Here’s a poorly captured photo of Gary Cooper wearing horizontal stripes. You should hear Alan Flusser tell stories about interviewing Cooper’s daughter and learning about Cooper’s sartorial habits. I think I’ve shared the story about Cooper buying cloth and taking it out to his beach house in Malibu to fade in the sun-then bespeaking creations from thusly sun-drenched textiles. Damn.
Ok…on to the latest Amazon.com delivery. I can rationalize anything but book buying has always been easy to equivocate. The acquisition of knowledge is the unending business of the soul and how the hell-pray tell do you expect me to perpetuate the unending business without books? Shut up.
So in order to keep the soul perpetuating efforts moving forward-three books awaited my arrival from Seattle. By the way, that “One-Click” option on Amazon is dangerous-and I love it. Kinda like the first girl that I dated after my marriage ended. Butcept I didn’t really love her dangerous ass-I just loved her…mind and the way she and that mind abetted my unending business of the soul-knowledge acquisition thang-efforts. Ok, ok I’ll leave that ramble right there. Shhhhh.
Book One- Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon. Mrs. Blandings suggested that I read it and that’s all I need for a recommendation. She’s rock solid and I’ve long since learned to do what I’m told when the orders come from women. I’ve not read any of Chabon’s fiction but his autobiographical essays, I can tell already, are going to be right down my alley. Our mutual friend Toad turned me on to Cutty-One Rock a couple of months ago and I knocked that one out in a few nights.
Book Two-The Queen Mother-the Official Biography by William Shawcross.
One thousand and ninety six pages including the bibliography and index. I’ll report back on this one sometime in the Spring of 2010-seriously.
I always loved the plucky Queen Mother. I liked the fact that she and her husband stayed in London during the blitz while Ambassador to the Court of St. James Joseph P. Kennedy when not hinting that appeasement woulda been a good idea was heading out to the country at night so to avoid any Nazi ordnance. When a bomb landed on the grounds of Buckingham Palace, then Queen Elizabeth said…. "I'm glad we've been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face."
I also liked the fact that she took a strong drink or three every day and that like me-she loved collecting Vanity Fair caricatures.
She covered the walls with them at Birkhall in Scotland.
Book Three-Horton Foote: America’s Story Teller by Wilborn Hampton.
I don’t know where to begin admiring Horton Foote. He was a Texan who told stories-through screenwriting and playwriting. He loved the same woman his entire adult life and raised a bunch of young’uns and enjoyed being with his family as much as anything and that’s enough right there to admire.
But mostly I’m envious. Envious that I can’t assemble a paucity of words in ways that create such poignant and sublime feelings. He wrote the screenplay-adaptation for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The simplicity of this dialogue gives me goosebumps and makes me choke up a bit. How can anyone witness such gifts and not believe in God?
This is what I’m talking about. Here-read this:
Scout: How old was I when Mama died?
Scout: And how old were you?
Scout: Old as I am now?
Scout: Was Mama pretty?
Scout: Was Mama nice?
Scout: Did you love her?
Scout: Did I love her?
Scout: Do you miss her?