White Out and What Stirs Within

A few days ago while floating around the West Village, myself and another flaneur in search of nothing and everything noticed a fun little item in the window- a white tiger reclining (rather than protecting) a storefront.  Peeking in gave no indication of what was inside, and the pseudo-fade of the painted name rung no mental bells, and only right now (while trying to figure what to write of) did I find out that it was an interior designer whose work I had seen before but who did not leave any deep impression- being as it is more of that kind of second level, possibly third tier, decorative work that is of the city.

What does impress me is that there is a quiet beauty to the storefront in an area where the increasing faux luxury of brand names just around the corner, spawned by the demonic show that gave rise to the cupcake craze, has infiltrated further and yet further.  Fortunately, one need but enter a true place such as Three Lives and Company Bookstore to take a breather and imagine that the West Village is changing back to the good old days.

A lark, or, a rather drab day so far

While taking lunch today, I was asked by the counterwoman whether I was tired.  Indeed I was, but I did not realize it until she asked me.  That quickly spiraled into a full blown state of general blah (and the additional slowness and melancholy induced by the Bach solo violin which I had been listening to on my walk), and even a visit to the used bookstore (that steady companion and provider of amusements and possibilities) could not inject me with any real energy.  You could say that it is as if I have been suffering from a three day hangover, although I haven't drank anything except the usual water, sparkling water and a diet soda or two for three days now.  Who knows?

I thought of the fellow in the portrait by Arthur Devis of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Bull, if you know it- a most peculiar imagery amidst the lux environs, as if someone slipped it in there as a bit of a lark.

How far and away things seem today, as if my usual ways were spinning ever so slightly off track, audible only to me.  A stolen nap for an hour didn't quite help, and maybe another is needed- either that, or one or two whiskeys on the rocks.  After all, a limited edition bottle is waiting just around the corner (i.e, in my stock)...

ever detached, off, and somewhere else- a place far away from myself

The art of Art

The thing is, what I am usually looking for I am not quite sure I want to find, and, as such is often the case, I happen to walk away empty handed but with a mind full of new images and thoughts and possibilities of new acquisitions.  This happened to me when I dropped into the Argosy Bookstore, that one perfect bookstore from my memory and my youth (despite the tragic fact that I have only ever purchased one thing from there, and even then it was only a dollar mystery paperback, but one which I needed for my as yet incomplete Lord Peter collection) while I was on the prowl for a complete set of the Anthony Powell books (the twelve volumes, not the collected ones, and in hardback, although the paperback Fontana series with the amusing covers are quite good too) but no luck was to be had (not that I expected it, really, and, quite honestly, plopping down a thousand plus dollars for a set is not the most attractive thing to do for me at the moment with my eye set on many other materialistic conquests).  But, really, I do digress.  The whole point of this claptrap is that in the outside display windows were some rather droll cartoons/illustrations by one Art Young (a name wholly unfamiliar to me) but who I thought I would jot down.  

this "society" picture was the one which caught my eye.

According to his autobiography, he writes:


I am antagonistic to the money-making fetish because it sidetracks our natural selves, leaving us no alternative but to accept the situation and take any kind of work for a weekly wage [...] We are caught and hurt by the system, and the more sensitive we are to life's highest values the harder it is to bear the abuse.


Now, you know that humor is humor, social critique is social critique, but that statement speaks directly to this idle fellow who pens these few lines.  

Circles form outside and inside ourselves

Winter no longer being the winter that it used to be, that cold snowy near or below zero temperature weather that came and stayed with absolute surety for a few months, it was pleasing to see what amounts to a contemporary snowstorm (that word which is used by the politicos just in case anything happens, a catchphrase for "it'll probably be little more than snowflakes")- and, indeed, only a very thin layer fell onto the ground a few days ago, but it was enough to carpet the garden of the Frick to my delight. For, inside was the quiet, the reserve- and, of course there was beauty (although I have to say that the work I had gone expressly to the Frick to see- the Whistler portrait of Comte de Montesquieu, he who is the inspiration for Baron de Charlus, was sleeping downstairs or upstairs in quiet storage, only to re-emerge next week in time for the Renoir show).

it was still outside.

Still Touch, Sight and Sound

Watched "Endeavour", the prequel to the Inspector Morse series last night, and I did not know what to expect nor really thought of how anyone could fill in for John Thaw, but just let myself be led along by the hand for a nostalgic ride of sorts.  Most interesting though not subtle (nor need it be so, perhaps) is how there was and is a strict definition of what is right and wrong- not about what the "law" is, which, as can be seen at any time to be able to be perverted in all manners and means.  This kind of black and white distinction, rather than the increasingly blurred parameters of greyness and all colors in between, is the distinction between faith and mere guesswork- at least, if taken on an individual basis (the only base upon which it should be applied, anyway)

The last scene when Morse's superior asks him in the car was unexpected- "But, what you got to ask is, where do you see yourself in twenty years?" and he looks into the mirror and sees perhaps an inkling of what is to come- and the viewer (or at least, those who have followed Morse through his later incarnation, right until his death) sees ourselves and myself reflected for a glimmer, as well as (for Morse, we feeling for him) both a kind of sad glory and a quiet destiny.

"...falls the remorseful day"

A few roaming thoughts Fry related and such

A few months ago, when I was in London, there were two books which keep catching my eye when I popped into the bookstores for a look-around and also in the newsstands when I was waiting to catch my next train or plane, and one of them was The Fry Chronicles by Stephen Fry.  I did not buy it for who knows what reason, but eventually (two months ago) I came across an advance copy of it and was happy to finally have it.

As luck would have it, my hoarder/cheapskate friend sent me a link to some free or cheap thing that was being on offer in the city, which I looked at but quickly dismissed as having absolutely no interest to me (I forgot what it was, but probably some kind of open bar slash promotion for some television series or magazine).  Well, since I was on that site, I gave it a quick glance of the freebies and events, and most of them were of the same kind of variety but there was an announcement that Stephen Fry would be giving a little talk and signing his book in a few weeks' time.  I most quickly wrote the date down in my calendar and even more quickly erased the "New York for cheap" or "New York for cheapskates" site from my memory until this evening with this here post.

Last evening was the Stephen Fry talk, where from his very entrance (met by a standing ovation by many, including myself to get a better view but which I suddenly realized I was quite happy to have done, given my deepening interest in both the work and the man himself) and there was an immediate electricity that I could not deny in my own feelings, in my own thoughts.  What he said regarding language, and the absolute beauty of it, having recognized this in an early age (ten) after reading Oscar Wilde, struck me again (and again, as I had read this from him and heard it in a similar form in a recorded interview) with being absolutely spot-on- I thought back to how when I was about that age (two years older), I had a similar feeling but I did not realize that there were others who felt this way.

You see, even going to a "good school" with "smart" kids makes not an ounce of difference if they themselves have none of the love or interest in things cultural, and where most of the teachers at such institutions are merely going through the motions.  Thinking back, I can cite a few who tried to give me a nudge in the right direction (especially the late Mr. Robert N. Smith who had the spark himself, Ms Edith Heinlein who saw in this talkative fool something else and encouraged my writing of poetry- which I promptly did but even more quickly laughed at to my dismay time and again in my mind years later and absolute discredit to myself now, Dr Weinberger whose first name escapes me at the moment but who I used to call Doc and was also supportive of my writing but again to my discredit did nothing about and still am floundering in idleness).

Sorry for the diversion, and back to Mr Stephen Fry, but for whomI think I will be unable at this time to express my full thanks to in any detail.  Much too many things are running through my mind regarding him, and I think the essence of it is that he sparked something inside of me which has been slowly rebuilding (ever since reading Simon vB's book and talking to him a little) and I thought and truly felt was dead in me- that something which is a need to write, to read, to live, to enjoy what time in my life is left, to do it properly and brilliantly.

a great smile which he seemed to have for everyone.  a positive individual.

Immortality in Marble

Yesterday I went to visit the Renaissance Portrait show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, mostly because I saw a hilarious poster near the entrance which showcased one of the few sculptures on display. Because of its highly humorous quality, and the fact that it reminded me of the tragic and beautiful character Widmerpool (who has been floating about my thoughts for the past three weeks), I had to go see it.  Lo and behold, in all its glory, there it was- and, trust you me, I had plenty of kicks looking at him.  Most hilarious is that on the left side of his eye, there looks to be a bruise- as if someone gave him a black eye.

When you decide to take a closer glance at what this is- a sculpture of Niccolo di Leonardo Strozzi in marble by Mino Da Fiesole, you really have to wonder so many things.  Most importantly, that the sculptor was truly not doing justice to his subject, or was he already more than generous?  The fact that it was commissioned by the subject himself (after you find he was a banker for the Papal Bank) is no wonder (such being the case with most rich people who like to see themselves immortalized, as when Andy Warhol received tons of commissions by society folk), but, what was Niccolo's response when he saw this less than flattering depiction?  Probably he thought himself to be the most handsome man in the world.  Well, who's to disagree?

As for myself, I think that this is truly a masterpiece- a comedic and aesthetic display of brilliance. Rodin need not fear for his reputation, but was Rodin ever such an impressionist of the knee slapping variety that is this work?  Ha!  Anyway, if you can do me a great favor, by all means, do go and see it.

ha and ha.

This is The End

It being very close to the end of another rather poor year in general (that is, the lunar year of the rabbit), it is with joy that it is cast away for another (that of the dragon)- this written but a few short hours before the change-over.  Not that it really means a whit of difference, or does it?  One really never knows whether everything is determined or not, or whether we can just buckle up and change the course of our own (and others' destiny), or is it as in that fun book of essays collected by the writer of our times SvB- "Why Our Decisions Don't Matter"

Whatever the case, lazy people getting lazier and workaholics working themselves to the bone (a similar train of thought read last evening in my slow dissection of Proust), here is another tidbit to munch on- this, while the majority of this nation (american, that is) but probably not my own readers (who exhibit the same kind of "who cares?"attitude towards the oafish sport of football (not soccer) today can reflect on, while the masses imbibe the swill that is Bud and eat tons of fried garbage.  For them, the end has probably already been here for quite some time.

a sign from one of the bookstores that i pop into quite often.

Wild about the boys.

Having found out that the illustrious wordplay artist Stephen Fry would be in town soon, I thought back to that film of his (Wilde) which I had been meaning to watch for years, and finally got around to doing so- quite happily, I might add, as it brought back many memories and dreams which I have had or held (and somehow either misplaced, or put on hold, or mis-shelved over the years), and it was like meeting an old friend (actually, two, if one were to include Mr. Fry who I have known of and admired since watching him in various skits, interviews, seeing his Jeeves and reading some of his work).  How far and away the time when in secondary school I was enraptured by the witty and clever work of Oscar Wilde, and my heart skipped a beat when I heard the lines from his "Ballad of Reading Gaol"- lines, which I had in fact read many a time, memorized, and after almost twenty years, coming back to haunt me in many ways.

For, you see, the time that I read it- that was when I was oh so very very young.

Oscar Wilde on trial, defending "the love that dare not speak its name"

a breaking point

Yesterday I was engaged in some conversation with two friends which drifted into a territory wholly unfamiliar to me for a while now- that is, something which evoked the feelings of a certain kind of dread and also of a sorrow for the end of something (as well as its subsequent re-emergence as something else, the beginning, the absolute beginning of something else, a point zero as I've never had it ever in my life), and, it followed me, this feeling, these sorts of moody thoughts, for hours, helped only by the smile and wave of a beautiful woman as I walked home (she who was waving to me, but whom I did not know but who I smiled at in return- a questioning but open kind of smile that said nothing but accepted everything) - and that smile, yes, but, alas, what came over me dissipated into the night and eluded my dreams (and so too my nightmares).  Before dropping into slumber, a double of bourbon, following my conclusion of the fourth book in Proust's series, neither calmed nor inflamed my mind to having any further thoughts on the matter, but I wanted more of the intoxicant, the downer rather than the upper that is liquid gold.

The feeling that I had yesterday- now gone, or at least pushed down, was that the world (as I know it, whatever that means, and whatever that is worth) can be seen to be "broken"

which through a nostalgic lens can be found things

By another name

On one of my ever frequent visits to the perfume counters at a few choice (but obvious) establishments, mostly along Fifth and Madison Avenues, I have been keeping tabs on one scent in particular which caught my attention because of its link with the Duke of Windsor.  Supposedly using ingredients from his garden, or perhaps it was the flowers which he most adored (a certain kind of rose whose name escapes me at the moment), this limited edition shows up every now and again, but I have never had the chance to give it a try.  That is, until a few days ago, when, to my surprise, it reappeared after being sold out or out of stock.  Alas, disappointment quickly followed- as is often the case preceding fervent and eager anticipation. I am not quite sure it was really worth the wait.  It is called Creed Windsor, but it reminded me more of the flat unmemorable, wholly regrettable and totally forgettable "duchess" far more than the fabled, glamorous and exuberant Duke.

in bloom, late summer at Brideshead.

Red is the color of True Love

Although I've been cutting down on meat eating recently- of course, nothing whatsoever to do with health or moral considerations, every now and then I do think about some carnivorous delights.  As I will be most cheerfully headed back to London in a little while's time, I was chatting with my old friend who I will visit and bother once more and she was saying that perhaps we could cook something at home rather than go out (as she has a child, and you know how children are- even the well behaved ones).  Which got me to thinking about that one morning I was at Brideshead (Castle Howard) and they had that brilliant but small (perhaps compact is a better word) butcher shop inside one of its exterior buildings.  Seeing as I would not have a chance to be cooking when I was there (and the fact that I was bound for another destination, and could not carry raw meat around for a few days in my luggage), I snapped some shots of what seemed so utterly and ridiculously appealing- I say ridiculous because I am not a foodie in any sense of the word, and often food is the absolute last thing on my mind.

Nonetheless, looking at the various cuts of meat available that day, more red and lustrous than the most precious ruby, I thought that perhaps I really would give home-cooking a go (that is, home cooked at someone else's home)- so, I am now diligently checking which butchers to go to.  I'll report back later, and in the meantime, here are some snaps from Brideshead's butcher.  Did I mention they had grouse that was shot the night before?

a little or a lot of each, please.

Afternoon Ballet in Smoke

Something arrived in the mail for me, an unexpected little package from an old and dear friend who I have not heard from in a little while.  Probably you will understand and concur with me when I say that in some cases (though, definitely not all- not in the very very least), that there are some people by whose very mention causes your heart to skip a beat.  I guess in the life of every person, there is bound to be at least one (maybe many, if you're lucky) such individual.

The gift was in the form of incense papers, which I had first thought of getting a while back from Santa Maria Novella (not the original store in Italy, but rather its far and away outpost here in the city), but, when I tried to see it in action, the saleswoman told me the story of how it was against the law (her law, the owners' or the city's, I was not made clear of) to light them inside.  The scent of what was on display was apparent, though faint, and I gave it no more thought until today when I was examining and trying out the papers.

First lit, and giving in to the reverie of an afternoon and lost time, and thoughts of she who gave me the new year's gift, I followed the smoke wafting up as I've never seen it before (though, unfortunately, not caught on camera), twisting and turning, dancing through the air in such an awesome choreography that it appeared a legion of ballet dancers were floating before my eyes.

And, soon enough, sure enough- it was gone.

Blackest Black

Although as of late, I have added four suits of varying colors and patterns into my otherwise same old same old repertoire of uniform/outfits (that of the old black on black with white shirt) and have my eye constantly on the lookout for new conquests much like the usual politician but in the form of interesting fabric and not young women (or men, if the truth is revealed), I glanced through the on-line "Notebook" of the renowned Anderson & Sheppard and was seduced by the description of a new black colored cloth suggested for evening clothes (but, likely suitable and appropriate for myself in any environment- at least, ones in which I have any interest in going to), a fabric in which the color is deepened by means of sinking the dye further into the wool, which supposedly avoids the effect which seems greyish (or not so black as one would hope for with a wink and squeeze of the arm, demand with a hopeful patience, and so vividly and splendidly dream of- how to achieve and possess the blackest of black, as with the shirts the whitest of whitest, to achieve purity in color form)

It is called Anderson & Sheppard "Formal Black"- really, a simple enough name for something which, if you knew me in the least bit by now, seriously and absolutely set my heart aflame.

Formal Black.  Informal too.  anytime & almost every time.

Solid State Evaporates

There was a time when I used to have even more free time than I do now, which is pretty much a lot of free time, and I used to frequent the used bookstores even more so than I do now (which, truth be told, has not been so often ever since the fall of bookstores in the city), and I used to rifle through books which seemed of interest to me to see if there was any ephemera contained inside.  This could be a letter, bookmark, postcard, et cetera- anything, really, as long as it bore the mark of somebody having read it (although I do not value anybody's having written anything inside it, unless it was the author him or herself in his or her own copy).  I collected a bunch of these worthless things over the years, but in my usual bouts of clean up clean out (which are becoming ever so more frequent with my desire to unhoard practically everything to a state that even a master of minimalism would go out of his mind), most of these things have been chucked away.

A few weeks ago, there was a copy of the collected edition of Prince Valiant (once a valued item, but now made essentially worthless by the brilliant new republication in hardcover), and I was leafing through it and out popped a clip-out from the Sunday, May 25, 1980 edition of some philadelphia newspaper.  I was excited to see it, as usually collectors clip out many of these to be pasted up into a scrapbook.  Alas, what I found was entirely half-baked, probably even more so- it was not even clipped out, and contained only one Prince Valiant cartoon (of that day) and some other ones of other cartoons now long forgotten.  Disappointed, I placed it back into the book, but not before I took a snap of the advertisement on the back.

It being the Christmas season, I thought of the many people who "wanted" this, "needed" that, and in the same way, this advertisement for these once fancied products of the future have long become undesirable, worthless, tragic objects which may have lasted a little longer than a Hollywood marriage, but probably not much longer.

Odyssey Popping Up and Popping Out

The other day I saw a fun window display in the children's bookstore that depicted a scene from the Odyssey, but upon going inside (yet not asking anyone), I could not find or locate the book in question.  When I left, I gave the book on display another glance and it seemed to be in Catalan, so perhaps it was a promotion in the foreign language section (which I rarely, if ever look at).  Now, the Odyssey is a classic that in the olden days was read (or pretended to have been read, not understood, you see) by everyone (or everyone who had any sort of education in the sense of "education"), but, somehow, my generation (learned as it was, and in institutions which should have mandated it but instead chose to elevate things of no value based on a sense of overeagerness to address past grievances, et cetera) chose to forsake one of the pillars of its very own culture.

Of course, my curiosity was not abated though I did not see the book, and did some quick searching (on-line) and I found that there was indeed an english version of said Odyssey pop-up book, which had been published a few months' prior, but, because of my unexpected physical state of inactivity this weekend, I will have to put off for a few days to look at.

What strikes me as incredibly odd, though not surprising, is the way that things are becoming overly simplified- well past the short attention span that was being spoken and written about twenty years ago.  The sense of immediate gratification and more than superficial knowledge does make one cringe, that is, if one gives even half a damn- which is, as can be expected, also as unlikely as the next incumbent puppet keeping to his promises (and from which will stem forth another term of disillusionment)

In the meantime, speaking for myself (qualified as I am only to do so for myself and nobody else), I thought of the box set of Homer's Odyssey and The Iliad which I picked up sometime last year, but which I have not cracked the spine of.  You see, I have (as many people do, I suspect) many books which they buy but which they have every intention (however half-baked) of reading, but never get around to- so much so that the pages of those once new books have become yellow, aged, deteriorating, and finally, unreadable.  I hope that this will not be the case with this set, and, in fact, I can see it being my companion on some evenings this winter- or, perhaps, in the cool of summer.

Old Criminal Things

I've been an on and off reader of mysteries for the better part of many years now, always snooping around in that category to see what new writers come up with.  For the most part, it is a crime that most of them are published, being as they are the predictable sort of drivel that is commercial (which, is not always bad but most often is), although some contemporary writers such as Henning Mankell (when writing in the crime genre) and Donna Leon (which is, admittedly, pop, but is a fun pop) do stand out amongst the sordid crowd of identical scripts.

So, in my search for new things (at least, new to myself), I came across in the dusty and musty 48 cent bins an okay copy of The Department of Dead Ends by Roy Vickers, which I had just read about on some mystery books related blog not that long ago.  Supposedly hard to come by, but much recommended for its early prescience- the knowledge of who the murderer is in advance, rather than going the other way around to deduce who is the killer, seems not so extraordinary nowadays but in fact was something quite uncommon in the beginning years of the genre.

A collection of ten of the small number of short stories that Mr Vickers wrote on this "Department" (so called because it was the last resort, where all manners of nonsense and unrelated clues were meant to be delivered, without any expectation of the crimes ever being solved), they read more as short psychological studies, and are quite breezy despite the seriousness of the murder.  Without needing coziness, they are indeed that kind of cozy sort, murder without blood, a mental game for the reader, and for some reason as I write this, the silly stories of Encylopedia Brown which I devoured when I was younger (and, also, twenty plus years later when I read some newer ones) come to mind.

At the end of the day, though, a good mystery is harder to find than (as they say) a good man.

death comes, again and again, as does a kind of justice.

The Four Seasons (not Vivaldi)

I will have to say that the days and nights are beginning to haunt me a little, I am not quite sure exactly why, but perhaps it is because I am suffering from the aftereffects of Dance to the Music of Time (Powell as translated into a television series), and with the bunch of randomness and nonsense that I am doing at the moment, none of it making much sense and/or seeming even less important than I would have allowed it to be (which was, in fact, rather low on the scale of importance anyway), that every little and great thing seems destined to fade away- our names, ourselves, everything that made and defined or thought was defining us. Perhaps it better to say "me" rather than "us" so as to allow all the blame to fall squarely on my own lap, on my own head, and so be it.  And was Widmerpool a saint of sorts, a devil longing for redemption and raging in a sea of indifference but with a crumb tossed to him in the form of someone who neither was interested in him nor cared but merely tolerated him for chance for luck for how one grows up to be, a fool more foolish and laughable and no less pathetic and tragic than a clown in a circus or an innocent corrupted by time, age and his milieu which he could neither live in, break out of, or break entirely until he himself was redeemed or broken?

Oh, winter will be here before you know it.

In Exchange and Glenn Gould Again

At year end, I was invited to the home of a friend (having never been for one or the other reason), and it is easy to see how time flies when I was introduced to his two daughters (only one of whom I had seen pictures of, and it turns out it was from when she was one).  So, when I saw that the daughter was in fact six (or seven) and all grown up, and the younger sister was three, I had to laugh at the way that time passes by (but, in this instance, in the way that it should- without regret, without nostalgia).

While having desert, I had mentioned as I always do the name Glenn Gould to those who are raising children- saying how Glenn Gould was able to play the piano before he learned to speak and et cetera, hoping to unduly pressure and influence anyone who has a kid to help them realize their potential as the next child piano prodigy/genius.  When I mentioned the name, little Chloe (the three year old) said, "What Glenn Gould?" and it really cracked me up.  Alas, when she played piano for me (in exchange for a piece of candy, which she in fact gave me moments before), it sounded more like an avant garde pianist influenced by Schoenberg and those who appeared contemporary in the old days, but there is still time...

pineapple candy.

E.T. The Sequel

I've been a little too serious recently, the new year and all that, so a bit of frivolity and idleness makes a first appearance this year in these often unread pages.  Every now and then, I go around and look at the flea markets. antique stores and auction houses with absolutely no mind to buy anything- merely the pleasure of browsing and snooping around the collections of others now confined to the market or the auction block is enough for me, usually.  Although there was that one object I wanted to bid on last year, if you remember, which I was unable to acquire.  The most recent piece (or pieces) which are shown here following these words are the latest craziness that I want to own, and looking at it you can surely understand my fascination with this E.T. futuristic alien who knows what it is but does it really matter as it is so absolutely crazy?  If there are any art aficionados who are versed in the world of science fiction, perhaps they can explain to me what exactly are these desirable things.  I assure you that if you owned it, it would be the highlight of your collection.

Gold and White E.T. Phone Home

Fade Away

Having watched a bit of a marathon of the Dance to the Music of Time (the adaptation of the twelve Anthony Powell books that I have been wanting, but never having gotten around to reading, and so instead took the easy route for now), and it's having giving me no end of strange thoughts, dreams and nightmares last evening (after having completed the last six hours of it), I thought very much of the ebb and flow of life and the inevitability of death.  Yes, perhaps that is far off (or behind the corner), and is a rather morbid thing to start off the year, but the admittance of it is perhaps a charm against it's happening so soon?

Either way, there was one thing that struck me very much during the series-  when the dislikable character Peter Templer finaly says something that seems spot on (not long before he is done in) and which voices something I suspected a while now, that "women may show some discrimination about whom they sleep with, but they will marry anybody,"

This is particularly true of the many (not just some) of the glorious (now mostly faded) beauties who had danced across the early stages of my life, and who have chosen to marry Grade A Duds (perhaps that is overly generous).  I suspect that somewhere along the way, "tall, dark and handsome" no longer become any kind of requirement whatsoever.

I guess in my saying that, I am really bidding my long overdue adieu to them, or at least, most of them- as only one or two (maybe three) will ever haunt my dreams anyway.  Really, does it matter in the least?

nature is beautiful, whereas human nature is...

Rise

It is a new year, and unlike all the other new years which have come and gone with all the promise that was unfulfilled and half baked attempts at resolutions undone and forgotten, this one holds some absolutely wonderful things and changes that I will speak of soon enough.