Texture-Pattern-Shape-Color…tactile
and visual attributes. It’s no secret that the fuzzier for me the better. Until
now.
Restraint?
Well I’m not gonna go overboard. But I do think in my old-er age I might be
pulling back just a teeny bit from my Southern, country ass, GTH togged “look at me, look at me” cornpone sprezzatura.
Who knows, maybe I’m unwittingly slipping into a phase of official mourning. Somber,
black crepe hanging attire included. Queen Victoria did it after Albert died.
And God knows she loved Albert better than Peter loved the Lord. That’s almost
as much as I loved my mama. False alarm. I just realized that if you’ve
unwittingly slipped into something, it’s kinda hard to then deem it official
upon arrival. Hold me. I’m confused. Unofficially.
Case
in point regarding my new, albeit just a teeny-tiny scooch over towards modulated
fuzzy moderation…I took a pass on this orange corduroy Ralph jacket the other
day. I’m only six weeks into orphanhood and it just seemed damn wrong on all
levels to consider taking title to it. Plus I didn’t go to Clemson or Princeton
or Tennessee or Florida or any of those other schools that claim orange as one
of their school hues.
But
forty years of mourning? I do think Victoria took it a bit too far. What with
only wearing black and refusing to leave Balmoral for ages on end and using
nothing but black bordered mourning stationery for the rest of her chubby
little roly-poly life. Johnny Cash is the only fella who had the color black’s
permission to singularly don it for decades on end. And he wasn’t mourning a
damn thing.
Apropos
of her forty years of black creped-ness, Vanity Fair reissued their original
portrait of Queen Victoria in monochrome black with a mourning border when she
finally joined Albert and Jesus in 1901.
Here’s
the colorful original version from Vanity Fair—June 17 1897.
And
another thing about Queen Victoria before we move on…What we don’t know
for sure is whether or not she was getting some real bereavement comfort
from her trusted ghillie John Brown. I sure hope so. And I’m not just talking about
the therapeutic benefits of long walks and talks. We all know that they did a
bunch of that. Lord knows I can talk. And walking still comes easy. I’m thinking
I need me one of them constant bereavement companions for a while. Butcept a
girl one. With benefits.
The
texture of my 2014 Christmas has so far been rough and smooth. I’m alone but
not lonely. My heart is still heavy—now magnified by this being the first Christmas
without my mama—but I’m not wallowing in it. I drove home yesterday. In a MINI Cooper. John Cooper Works performance edition to be exact ("Performance Edition"MINI...ain't that a hoot?)...with my prostate seven inches off of I-95 for 7.5 hours. I need another car. And a smaller...
I’m typing this from my childhood cowboy
bedroom and the monastic silence of being here alone isn’t depressing at all. LFG
is in Florida, my brother is around the corner at his house and I’ve
reconnected with a bunch of childhood friends who are here for the holidays. So
I’m by myself in this once boisterous and noisy holiday house but I’m ok. I had
a visceral, primal need to be here so here I am.
A
tree? Of course. I’ll never have an artificial one but since I was solo this
Christmas I didn’t need a big one of any type. So I nabbed a piccolo fir and
just donned it with my favorite ornaments.
And
thanks to Susie and Dougie for sending me presents. Otherwise the tree wouldn’t
a been the only thing attenuated.
Back to texture and pattern...I
had to put on real clothes the other day and make some business and personal
rounds. And I coulda put on some GTH Christmas corduroy embroidered caca
trousers and some retail red waistcoating like all the other holiday revellers.
But I didn’t. Remember, I’m in mourning.
So
it was a navy blazer and my Daddy Flusser semi-GTH Bronco Buster wool challis
togs. Oh, and my Meermins which are holding up just fine in year-two by the damn way. Shut up.
And
I even got a mourning haircut. I figure another year and my follicular
vacancies will be such that I’ll go back to cutting the remaindered sprigs
myself.
My
bereavement is evident in this Polo Chevy Chase selfie that I took while out
and about. Time will bring back my smirky little pinch mouthed puckishness. But
time has deemed six weeks not enough.
Oh,
and by the way…don’t dress like this and visit a retail establishment lest you
want them to think you work there. I don’t.
And
I tried on a few things that I can’t buy. Including this bereavement brown
vest. Buy it for me.
Maybe
brown is my mourning color.
Kinda.
Brownish green-essence with a green leather club chair. I mean really…how
damned crepe laden can a fuzzy-ass flâneur like me become?
Brown.
It’s a restrained color ain’t it? But who says the texture-pattern thang has to
be? I vote no and you should too.
I’m
gonna close this drivel load now. It’s off to the shower and off to lunch. Christmas just ain't Christmas this year. But it's ok.
Onward.
Rough and Smooth.