where seldom is heard, a discouraging word

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear All,

 

What are we doing here?  I love this question- because it invites further questions.  What can the highest goal of a thing, an object, an image, a spark, a word, be?  What can be begotten by any one impulse? 

 

Plenty, I'll wager.  For a while now, I have been fumbling around trying to formulate a few thoughts on the spread of things.  Our time here is an exchange of ideas, even though we may not speak directly to each other.  My exhortation to you, is for you to improve this unlimitedly large place called the internet.  It is, indeed, full of junk, which is exactly why you must improve it.  It is your job to make it better. 

 

Someone here at the Dodo has added his two cents, and this post has a video of a gorgeous plasma plume;  have a look, it will send you gleefully to your paint box.  The large distances and great forces involved in getting things out of here (and sometimes back) are a siren song for wonder and reflection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Today.

Dear Fantastic Lover,


Is scarcity and loss our only true love, our only romance?  I woke to find I have been living the fin de siècle for 17 years now.  That is perhaps too much?  I know in your compassion you will allow me my pretend world, and, to return the favor, I grant you permission to live in yours.  Together, I only hope we can make some kind of decent hash out of the leftovers tomorrow.

What do you do, though, when a hole is punched into your wall?  When you see that the size of the room is so small, because you see suddenly beyond the scrim?  I suppose you must stretch, uncomfortably, with difficulty, into this new space, also.  I don't know that I believe in the improvements wrought by growth, by time.  I think it may be complete rot, and all improvements mere illusions.  Always, they tell me, always, try hard, try to improve;  They say; you are getting better, you are improving, you are doing well; considering your skills, your age, the times.

I dreamed all this, and it was true.

I joined a band- you were the leader, and I was terrible, I was supposed to dress scantily and keep the beat, on your right.  Another one, she was to keep it on your left, but she was to wear more.  She was to keep a bit hidden.  Our three voices wavered all over, we could not find any confident note.  They were making a film, also.  We two were to jump off the raised stage, into a lake, into the waters of the unconscious, and this is where we shone:  We were to come up for air, to sing, and to swim, in gasping, short, bursts.  We were to grab at small floating pieces of sodden presents, wrapped with ribbon.  We were excellent at this, we sounded so true, so whole; we were good, just for a camera's moment.

Suddenly, an 8 foot circle of wall broke away, and the water of the lake began to drain through it, and I waved a sorrowful goodbye to our band, to our song, to you.  And there was all that space beyond.  Our song had not really mattered at all, if it was good, or bad, it hadn't even really been at all. 

Is this growth?  Is it improvement?  Is it good?  Is it bad?  I know what you will say, what you would say;  It just is.

Fond of Faux?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Fashionable,

 

I overheard, a few years ago, some talk at a book release party, or I think that is what one would call it; when an author has people over to celebrate the publishing of their book.  In any case, a man, a man with style, a man known in my community as Chicago Joe (this is perhaps to distinguish him from other Joes in town?), was conversing with another stylish person, a woman we will call Mme. B.  They were both lamenting a loss of style-consciousness in our little burg- they thought that people used to care more about fashion, and they looked around, and they looked at me, because, just like you, I knew that this was a thing guests could really 'dress' for-  I had an all ivory ensemble:   Ivory shorts with dragonflies, a billowing ivory blouse, and a pair of ivory heeled oxfords to die for.  It was, if nothing else, very style-conscious.  

 

Chicago Joe has always distinguished himself with short-brimmed fedoras and smart, textured sports jackets.   Mme. B. won my undying devotion by wearing silver (silver!) clogs with a rose-printed scarf  tied at her waist to the opening of an art exhibit some several seasons before the book party in question.  To be perfectly clear, these two pillars of the community have spoken with me, now and then, but we really do not know each other by name.  They know each other, and they know friends of mine, and I know friends of theirs, but I wouldn't bet a fiver that they could give my name.  What we know about each other, and it is communicated by appreciative nods, and subtle stolen glances, is that we three care about style.  Still.  I reckon I have seen these two around my area for 3 decades, and I have noticed them entirely for the reasons they proffered:  they looked stylish.  They looked good.  They looked different, careful, and creative in their choices of cladding.  You might wonder why I am carrying on like this, but I know most of you know exactly what I am talking about.  There is a little wake of envy that follows people like Mme. B. and Chicago J:  People think to themselves:  I wish I could dress like that. 

 

If you haven't already seen through this little fallacy, now is a good time to say it out loud:  I wish I could dress like that.  Can you hear yourself?  Do you see where you have gone wrong?  Isn't it as plain as the nose on your face? 

 

Begin by putting your two favorite things together.  Tomorrow add another item.  Be sure these things do not match, be sure they do not go "together."  Be sure that you love them.  Add only things that you love- get them at the five and dime, the thrift shop, a friend's closet.  Make them yourself out of fabric you love.  Paint on them,  pin buttons to them, sew little stitches to the collars.  Cut off 5 inches.  Take the sleeves off.  Add five inches of another fabric.  You look marvelous!

 

Months have passed, you love to get dressed, and your friends have started to comment:  Gee, you look great today- it reminds me a bit of Mme. B.  I love your hat!  You look like Chicago Joe!

 

More time passes, you have given all your sweatshirts and fleece to the Goodwill.  Ripstop windbreakers seem too slithery to even touch, let alone wear.  You are ready, now, finally, for faux fur.  Get some here.