First the jewelled boot on my right foot extended itself cautiously to meet the dust on the road, and then the left. I steadied myself on the ormolu frame of my cal�che with a gloved hand, using the other to brush stray thistledown from my in Genoese lilac velvet. My man handed me my peau-de-lima�on walking stick, you know the one: the one with the peridot knop in the shape of a glans penis, from which fragrant oils were cunningly devised to spew, whenever I caressed it in a particular manner. Although Paris hardly took notice of her returning lord and master, within hours, I had reclaimed my fauteuil in the salon of Mme du Culras�, nibbling marzipan from the naked torso of an exceptionally well-turned-out cowherd from Uri Canton as M. Forqueray wandered through an improvised pr�lude in e-minor and discussing the proper preparation of encaustic paints with a charming young man of recent acquaintance, named, if memory serves, M. Arouet, or something like that.
You wish.
The truth is closer to this: last night, in a restaurant in the South End, for the first time in my life, my credit card was declined. And then my other credit card. My car, in case you're wondering, is still broken down in a mall parking lot, and I'm still a little dehydrated from polishing off two poorboys of unfathomably awful Merlot last night.
To that end, I am going to find myself an older gentleman of exquisite taste. I have much to offer such a gentleman: culture, manners, sophistication, wit, charm, modesty, looks (more or less), and, above all, youth. And then, as MG pointed out, it's only a matter of time before I'm walking down Fifth Avenue in flip-flops. [cf. F. Lebowitz, Notes on "Trick"].
Of course, Mr. G was in my kitchen nekkid as a jaybird last night and sophrosyne is perhaps better not so hastily ascribed to him.
EN is back, of course; we all knew she would be. It may have taken another hair-change. She dyed that I might live. She wants to Form A Movement. Gods bless her, so do I, so do we all, but since the pose I have chosen to adopt is one of gentle scepticism about the idea of the collective, tinged with inborn leanings towards indolence and resigned hopelessness, I was perhaps not in the "right space" to be one hundred percent supportive. I want it to happen, I guess, but I'm a big ol' pessimist and it just ain't. But we were on to something, and it wasn't just the merlot talking: Academia and the Real World are both hopeless sloughs for such as we. There must be a media via of a thoughtful life, participatory but also reasoned, artistic as well as humanitarian and comfortable. I pointed out there should probably be some address made towards heterodoxy, insofar as getting a bunch of "us" to think together aux baricades, citoyen(ne)s would be like herding cats with Orpheus's little sister from Des Moines's accordion and a small feathered howitzer.
I ascribe it all to the presence of SB's ancient red r�camier in our second reception room. It has been a theater prop (who hasn't?) and a moulderer-in-basements in its long life. It is just the emblem for season III of the Queer World.
I think I lost my keys in it, which sucks. Where the keys suck, there suck I.
I need to redo my nails -- they're looking shabby. I apologise for my slummy appearance, but then again, an unsmooth chin and flat hair are occupational hazards of sleeping in. Besides, there's something so egregiously bourgeois about grooming...
yours diffidently,
a