Here. Look at this photo. Clothes. You know, the stuff I usually write about. But currently I have no time to write voluminously. Y’all already know about the lack of substance—even when I do scriven-ate to the tune of several thousand words.
Clothes...Cleverly shoes, Irish linen trousers from Hertling, bespoke shirting from my daddy Alan Flusser, clocked with clocks socks from Alex Kabazz Kabam, and boxers from Target. Shut up.
Irish Linen...seems stronger to me. Rougher hand but durable as hell. Thicker? These trousers are twenty years old. Hemp-like. And no, you can't smoke 'em.
And these shoes? A Stubbs aberration that I saw over at the Brethren Brooks in Georgetown. Wrong. On every level. How many levels comprise "every"?
Oh and here’s a photo of LFG that I found in the guest bedroom. I took to the hospital for my mom to smile at. She’s smiling. Occasionally.
That's it for now. This is just gonna have to hold you till…whenever.
Oh, and this ought to amuse you for a bit. An excerpt from an email that I penned the other morning…
“I endeavour to consistently live a postlapsarian-esque life. It’s just so much more fun, I think, to wallow in sin as opposed to feel guilty or burdened about it. I also occasionally and deliberately use British spellings for shameless affect. Doing so as I sit here in the bourgeois, honkey-tonk hometown of my upbringing, makes it all the more affected. Actually, doing so right this moment, as I sit here in my childhood bedroom, magnifies to an even greater degree my poseur status.
Raised? I was raised amongst poison drinking, snake handling tongue-talkers. I kid you not. So I’m exotic out-the-ass. Think about some of the most troubling and troublesome characters from Welty, Faulkner and even more so, that Irish gal from Savannah and late of Milledgeville, Flannery O’Connor. Conjure some of those quirky, dark characters and you’ve got my family tree. I also know for a fact that there were, on my pater side of the tree, at least three carnies. I remember meeting one of them when I was about three years old. She had three thumbs. I’m sure of it. It does make for a rather interesting, snuff juice, chin dribble…je ne sais quoi. Kinda. I don’t know. What? And I wouldn’t trade my heritage for anything less than, let’s see…maybe a small, strong pony.
How’s it going here? I’ll refrain from too much maudlin, mawkish treacle and let Auden and Updike poems, sent to me by my good friend Bruce Boyer, convey the mosh pit of emotional caca associated with what’s afoot here. Auden first…
As I ride the subway to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day, when week-end visits were a presumptive joy, not a good work.
Am I cold to wish for a speedy painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays, that God or nature will abrupt her earthly function?
And the last verse of Updike’s poem, Shillington…
The gutter-fires smoke, their burning done
Except for, fanned within, an orange feather;
We have one home, the first, and leave that one.
The having and the leaving go on together.
I swear, the “having and leaving” last line of Shillington just gut punches me every time I read it.”
Onward. Kinda.
ADG II