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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

¿Qué te pasa calabaza?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nada, nada limonada.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Get it? Got it. Good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Leader of the Luddites.

Hand-colored etching, 1812; in the

collection of the British Museum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear All,

 

I needn't explain to you, after all this time, all these heartfelt exchanges, where I am coming from here-  you know already, and I am happy that we can be there for each other.  From time to time, I feel a little puny & tiny, a little too marginalized in my outsider place;  paralyzed, ostracized; whole technologies have passed me right by- my Brothers and Sisters talk of television shows, music, games, apps, and social media that I don't have the foggiest notions of- I am relegated to the attic, I am not relevant. 

 

You might, feeling as I know you do, find yourself in a similar funk.  As the man who built our house says "Be thee of good cheer." 

 

Somewhere, there are places for us.  Here is one now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PS  Another little something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mashed Potato

Dear Feet,

Where can we get some shoes that can move like that?!

Lurkey's Turkeys.

Dear Friends and Family,

     May your holiday be filled with cats, dogs, and thankfulness.

Lost Highway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nearest, Furthest and Dearest Ones,

I am little threatened, a little scared, a little loathe to lose my highway.  What I mean, of course, is that I prefer to continue to drive my car, and make my own mistakes, and not have to discuss too much of it with Hal.  The car, for me, is a symbol of a kind of sovereignty.  It is a wildly powerful machine, a car; and they let you first drive one in your formative years.  Which might be why it will always feel to me a little like Christmas morning to pull the strap across my chest, bandolier-like, turn the key in the ignition, place my hands at 10 and 2 o'clock, and think:  Is everything go?  It will always feel like a fine beginning to me, like an adventure.  Driving has never felt like a chore to be avoided, like cleaning grout or filing taxes.  This, they tell me, is partly due to genetics, but I prefer the conceit of believing that it is my own personal choice to be a pirate, a gadabout, a pilgrim, and a gallivanter.

Did I tell you about the thing with the light bulbs?  I abhor those efficient bulbs with their ghastly bluishdeath glow, and so I bought a C-note's worth of incandescent bulbs some years ago.  Yes, it did feel like I had gone a little mad, hoarding light bulbs like that.  And so we come to the automobile: Can I get a big box of older cars that will let me do the driving and just use them up for the next however many decades?  Would that seem crazy to you? 

By the time the self-driving car hits the shelves, I will be through with my mourning, because I am already seeing that what I really worry about, what I am most afraid we might lose, is not just the chance to drive along in an automobile, but some piece of being human.  When I figure out precisely what human attribute I fear we are losing, you will hear from me, and we can try to save it together.  In the interim, please enjoy these three songs:

 

 

one

 

two

 

three

 





 four.

 

Written down in a tear-stained letter.

Dear Recipient, or, To Whom it May Concern,

You know why I still write to you this way, don't you?  I send my love like this because I have lost your address, and I don't think you are driving past the billboard I wrote my message on; in large red spray painted letters, across the lugubrious grins of a pair of 10 foot high lawyers.

In any case, I send you all my love, mostly, and occasionally a few news items-  here is something that seems especially salient.  

The wonderfulness of this particular moment is that I received a message with this noteworthy item in it, and so I wanted to pass it on to you, but more than that, I am also reading a terrific novel about mail, and letters, and technology and pins, and pigeons and golems and well, you really should read it too- it's a delight:  Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett.

The letter un-received is a powerful metaphor and I must consider it carefully, and organize my thoughts by writing them down.  I hope you will get my letter, but if you do not, please know that I am thinking of you.

Until my next missive,
yours,
truly.






PS
A Tear Stained Letter.  And another.
- S. W. A. L. K.