Posts Tagged ‘antique gold button’

I am lounging upon my récamier and playing a snail-paced game of solitaire. Snail-paced because every time I get ahead, Francy swats at my neatly organized stack of winning cards with her paw until they have spilled onto the rug in a deluge of royalty and peons. I have the “Black Lady” in my left hand, and the “The False King” in my right. If Francy can restrain herself, I might win yet. In a surprise move, Francy leans in over my shoulder and attempts to bite the four-holed antique gold button off my grey wool sweater. Playing cards with a one-eyed cat is always a gamble.
“They call you Lady Luck.
But there is room for doubt
At times you have a very unladylike way of running out
You’re this a date with me
The pickings have been lush
And yet before this evening is over you might give me the brush
You might forget your manners
You might refuse to stay and so the best that I can do is pray.”

(By F. Loesser)


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I am staying in the romantically disheveled pensionne that Ms. Natalie Barney is rumored to have stayed at while pining away for one of her loves. As I bed down between the delightfully squishy down comforter and the worn starched linens, there comes a faint knock at my door. It is the concierge holding a tarnished silver serving tray upon which perches a telegram blessed with a single word, “Yes”. I wonder for a minute if you have been channeling Caresse and Harry Crosby, and toss the telegram aside in bafflement. Fastening the wagon-wheel antique gold rhinestone buttons on my quilted rust silk dressing gown, I order a plate of roasted plum and muscavado sugar cakes and a squat pot of rich black tea. In my opinion, tea and cake assuages many cares.
Blue Champagne – purple shadows and Blue Champagne,
With the echoes that still remain I keep a blue rendezvous.
Bubbles rise like a fountain before my eyes
And they suddenly crystallize to form a vision of you.”

(By G. Watts and F. Ryerson)

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It is 2 pm and I have just returned from my credit union, where I have withdrawn $100 in crisply new one dollar bills. I am sitting cross-legged on the wool Kurdish kelim in my bedroom, listening to Neko Case , nibbling on a warm basil-adorned fig and mozzarella sandwich, and folding money into one hundred paper airplanes. The weather has finally cooled down again, fog is stealthily creeping across the tallest buildings, and I’m dressed for warmth in Kelly green fine-wale corduroy jeans, worn black harness boots, a thin cotton black long-sleeved tee-shirt, and a black suede waistcoat with quadrilateral-shaped hammered antique gold metal buttons. I want freedom; the swift flight of urban birds as they travel from one end of town to the other, resting and jabbering in trees and on telephone wires. I will fly this money away to new homes, scattering the paper airplanes like seeds.
“I have lightning
If the stars dry out to guide me
I have soft clay
To knit my bones astride
What a miracle they say
Dark clouds gather
Velvet holes
Gaping wide oh
And they pour it down
And they sing to me
Of wonders

(By N. Case)

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I am staying at the Rifugio Brunek in Italy. I need some time to write, stroll, and daydream, so have taken a month away. I am staying in Catania, near Mt. Etna, the largest volcano in Europe. This seems suitable for the roiling in my heart. I’m planning on visiting Valle del Bove (Valley of the Oxen) later in the week, but this morning I’m eating a light breakfast of fruit compote, bread with butter, and coffee. I brush the bread crumbs off of my olive tweed jacket with antique gold unicorn, lion and heraldic crest buttons, and rise. Shambling across the plaza, I wink at a figure in the shadow of a nearby café. I continue; I need to find a stationary shop to purchase ink for my fountain pen, and plan on seeing a late afternoon showing of “La dolce vita” at the local cinema. I stuff my hands in my pockets and whistle “In Dreams”.
“A candy-colored clown they call the sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper
“Go to sleep. Everything is all right.”
I close my eyes, Then I drift away
Into the magic night. I softly say
A silent prayer, Like dreamers do.”

(By Roy Orbison)

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