We were stalking up and down the airy loggie of our winter palazzo this afternoon, pondering with half-awake mind the "Myth of Er" from the Republic, when we were abruptly visited by the thought that we were about to embark upon yet another solstice season in an inconvenient state of strapped-ness for cash. We straightway made haste to the ancestral chapel, where the bones of our forbears mildew in the heavy smoke of Adonis his fair mother, there to tell our beads and light a hecatomb of tapers to the mild Blessed Virgin lest our poverty be construed as a convenient excuse not to present our beloved peers with suitably lavish presents. We could, of course, sell our Titianos, but, if we did, for what else would our bastard offspring litigate in years to come? We would not have the fruit of our unchaste loins denied their livelihood. We could extort even greater taxes from the peasants of our immense Bavarian estates, but we have dedicated all of that revenue to the expenses of our table, and Tokaj, marzipan and saffron are not getting any cheaper.
Then it struck us: we could sell our knowledge on eBay. We have no further use for the Greek perfect system; let another drain from our cup the heady metheglyn of reduplication. We have tired of being able to quote long passages of "From Mozarabic to Romanesque at Silos" by rote. It is already written down; if we have further use of Shapirean wisdom in our practical pursuit of the coffee and tea trade, we may look it up in our copy of his collected essays. We have also been hankering after a haircut and the new Andrew Manze album (Handel violin sonatas, which we go into HMV every day, if possible, and listen to on the sample station) — both of which yearnings arise, clearly, out of our magnanimous desire to share their beauty with our friends, ergo, we may include them in our œconomy under the rubric of "Presents Seasonal".
The place is a tropical paradise. There are potted palms, sky-themed trompe-l'œil on the ceiling, son tradicional on the stereo, even a guest appearance by a mosquito [in November! — in Cambridge!], obviously hired to provide ambience, much like a strolling accordion player, except slightly less likely to spread disease. We were tickled absolutley pink. We discussed public aquaria, George Eliot, diners, and the inevitable gossip. TH of Soltero sauntered in, dazed, to procure a vegan tea product for his girlygirl. Readers living near Northampton, Mass. should be advised that he will be playing with the Mobius Band at Fire & Water this Friday.
We have repaired to our gabinetto di prodigij to record our day, dipping our pen in a cockatrice's skull and wiping our nib on a depraved Carmelite's snowy merkin. Tonight we plan to dream that we are Buffy, being violated against a wall by Spike (who will presumably be wearing the punky leather jacket he was wearing in the double-flashback episode last season). We will be unusually moist when we awake. We are toying with a monstrous cameo depicting the death of Alcibiades. The firelight plays merrily off a palissy-ware tureen containing an enormous mummified scarab. In the next room our choristers are performing selections from Gesualdo's Libro VI whilst our downy-cheeked catamite traces the basso continuo on an intarsia'd chekker. We draw another tumbler of vin santo. We call it a day.
Current Music: as stated, the sixth book of Gesualdo's madrigals, performed by il Complesso Barocco. Gesualdo was a nutter who killed his wife and cried himself to sleep every night with his favorite servant to keep him warm. I adore him, every insane dissonance.
Current reading: Charlotte Dacre's gothic romance Zofloya, or The Moor. It, too, might have influenced our prose, slightly. Well, between that and the gin.
Current vocabulary word: to save you having to consult the OED, which is less than well-informed on this account, chekker, n. cognate with Exchequer. A somewhat mysterious term, sæc. XIV, XV, XVI, now generally believed to refer to a clavichord or for a rectangular virginals, since their shape and manner of use recalled those of a counting-board or abacus, a charming image of the marriage of mathematics and music.