Pie Is Not Square
October 20, 2007
No Comments
Got Autumn?
October 19, 2007
4 Comments
You can see the blue of the sky in the sheen of the front door. That’s why you need to avoid much blue in the red color you choose. Out in the world it will look too purple.
Mums and gourds around the side. Done.
It’s officially autumn when clouds of ladybugs appear for a day or two and cover every surface like a first-round cornerback.
Doo, doo, doo, lookin’ out my front door:
The Beer Is Gettin’ Warm
October 18, 2007
2 Comments
I was on the floor all of a sudden. That was bad.
Potentially bad, anyway. It had a tendency to give a stiff bracer of courage to a fellow not quite sure of himself to see his man on the floor. If he gets hinky about you gettin’ up, he might bring in the boot. And if he has hinky friends, well, they’re all shod, ain’t they?
All the dirt and corruption of the world is on the barroom floor, my mother would say. Now, I was no stranger to dirt and corruption, but I had no desire to get right down in it. Still, a man could pause a short moment and take stock. That fellow is as surprised as me to find me down here. He’s like a fellow that prays in church but don’t really believe it. He looks around halfway through, to see if anyone notices him funnin’. That’s what he’s doing now.
You can never go halfway in church, sonny. And this is my church.
He thinks I’m old. He thinks it might be over before it started. He thinks I might not want any more of what’s he’s giving.
Son, I’m not going to get any more of what you’ve got.
He paused, and I did too. I hit my head on the way down somehow. There’s nothing soft in a bar that ain’t a woman. And in here, they’re all pretty hard, too. They’re lookin’ on like any Roman watching the lions do their business.
Well I ain’t a Christian right now, exactly.
I kinda like the tingly feeling where I hit my noggin’. It’s not pain right now. Plenty of time for that tomorrow. It’s like a vibration; it’s the soothing warmth of a rock that’s had the sun beatin’ on it all day. I feel it travel through me like a telegraph signal, to the very heart of my bones. And I feel Cuchulain in those bones.
I can’t linger in the moment. Shame. A man’s switch is on the outside, and only another can throw it. Roll over easy, like you might not get up, to get the right buffer. Then stand up, and put your hand one inch behind that feller. The beer is gettin’ warm.
(Still) The Same As It Ever Was
October 17, 2007
4 Comments
I’ve been hanging around the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston with bad intent. Well, it seems that way, a little, as I’m peeking in on this poor woman in her reverie. The picture is called “Leisure,” and it was painted in 1910 by William Worcester Churchill.
I feel a little better knowing that she must be dead. That didn’t sound quite right. I meant, I’m glad she’s achieved a kind of immortality by posing for this picture, at least until the oil in the paint flakes off the canvas or the Museum burns down; and I’m glad I can’t disturb her, because she looks comfortable.
In 1910, leisure was a newfangled concept to most of the people that trod the earth. The idea of a “weekend,” a rest from the work week, was just about to be invented in Britain, but for the aristocracy only. You didn’t get a day off at all if you were a beater for some viscount on a quail hunt on Sunday.
Look closely at the painting. The room is spare, but not barren. It looks urban outside the window, and the room looks small and cosy. To the right, there’s a screen in the corner to allow a modicum of privacy when dressing, and there’s a brass tub on the floor that looks like our heroine just used it to soak her feet. She’s propped comfortably on a divan, and reads the newspaper by the light of the window, and the leaf on the floor hints she’s had a minute to enjoy it already. A book and perhaps a folio stand by on the table if she wants to continue her bluestocking afternoon.
It’s been almost a hundred years, what’s changed? Well, everything, of course, but what about the idea — the idea of leisure?
Her surroundings are not drab. She has a modicum of privacy. She has time to herself. She has donned informal and comfortable clothing. the divan looks comfortable to perch upon, and allows a great deal of motility; that is to say, she can shift her position in it to various postures to avoid becoming cramped or stiff. She has something to occupy and stimulate her mind. She has likely performed her ablutions as part of a salubrious and languid ritual we might all enjoy after a hard day.
I don’t know Churchill’s work from a hole in the wall. But he knew his business. He showed us a person, and an appealing idea, and intimated to us something about himself too, by the composition of the painting and its subject. And he gave us the gift of understanding another person’s point of view, and perhaps seeing something of ourselves in it; something familiar but interesting.
She has no telephone. No radio. No television. The candle on the table might be for more than mood lighting. She could catch polio. Her dentist might work on horses too.
None of that matters when she was captured there by the window. We all need what she’s got. A cushy spot to rest our bones. Something to occupy our mind. Time to yourself. A little privacy. A little elegance.
Same as it ever was.
Marboo House
October 16, 2007
5 Comments
We visited Marble House in Newport, Rhode Island this weekend. I’ve written about it before:
The Greatest View In The World. It was a fine fall day; the sky had that pure blue look to it, with clouds in the most delicate shades of warm gray drifting languidly past. The summer’s humidity has cleared out, and lends an air of crispness to long views normally partially obscured in a faint haze. The neighbor’s Italianate cottage showed off the sunshine well.
At the gate:
Somewhere along the line someone lost interest in the place, and paved the circular drive up by the house with barbarous bituminous asphalt, and impressed brick shapes into it. It’s amazing to see something so shabby next to such a stone confection. But then again, your average dry-cleaning magnate has more money and a bigger house these days than your odd Vanderbilt. The trees are very old, and very fine, though.
It’s got your standard turn-of -the-20th-century/Beverly Hillbillies/White House/Neoclassical thang going on:
Any Roman would recognize this view:
It’s the back yard that’s got the real view:
And the Japanese Teahouse to take advantage of it:
There’s a walk along the ocean there. They’ve put a barbed wire topped chain link fence along it to keep the riff-raff out of the palaces. I might be riff-raff, but I know better than to put barbed wire chain link anything anywhere that’s supposed to a serene view. Better to skip it than ruin it. The interior version of barb wire was the replacement of the human docent with a headphone tour. Anyone that would wear headphones as a form of relaxation is… not me and my wife, anyway. We just wandered around and looked at things. It was far better, really. We know what everything is, mostly, anyway.
And of course: The Simpsons:
Month: October 2007
sippicancottage
A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.
Find Stuff:
Recent Comments