Posts Tagged ‘lucite button’

We barrel down the narrow streets towards 15 rue de Jacob and the Millesime Hotel, a 17th century city mansion in Saint-Germain des Prés and near Jardin du Luxembourg. Even Francy has perked up. Once in our hotel room, we unpack our pile of worn leather valises and travel sticker-covered trunks, strewing dirty laundry and cake boxes about. I need to find something clean and dry, and settle upon a dove grey boat-neck ribbed pull-over, a pair of 13 button sailor pants with square plaid Lucite buttons, and red, square toed, Italian ankle boots. I make my way to the courtyard patio restaurant for a hot beverage and a small dish of rejuvenating herb strata with ramps and Gruyere cheese. I hear “J’ai deux amours, mon pays et Paris” in the distance.
“On dit qu’au dela des mers
La-bas sous le ciel clair
Il existe une cite
Au sejour enchante
Et sous les grands arbres noirs
Chaque soir
Vers elle s’en va tout mon espoir”

(By J. Baker)


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I love riding on trains at night; the soft clatter of the wheels and the night sky as it whizzes by is soothing. Towns become mysterious blurs of lights. People talk in whispering tones, if they talk at all. It is almost like being in a library, if libraries were filled properly with reverent silence broken only by the rustle of turning pages, instead of chattering teenagers and querulous technophobes. I was dreaming in my seat, and woke suddenly at 3am. I pull my lightweight navy blanket up over my shoulders, snuggle down, and feel for Francy in my jacket pocket. She is curled up into an impossibly small ball, the collar I made of a black velveteen ribbon fastened with a Lucite and rhinestone button fastened lightly around her neck. I nibble a creme brulee pistachio macaron, and drift off again listening to Keren Ann singing.
“Send me offshore
It’s a cold blooded world
I can’t win, I give in, I give in
In the field of my fight
We can wonder all night
Why we have all the snow, all the snow
You and I we will drawn in the break of my dawn
With the pouring wind
Where begin is begin
But we can’t change the world
No we can’t change the world
It’s been done
By someone long ago”

(By K. Zeidel)

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I’m at a downtown department store, meeting you for civilized luncheon of chicken salad and iced tea, where we’ll be dishing about our mutual friends’ convoluted and often dramatic love lives. I dress carefully, as befits a leisurely few hours chit-chatting with you. I’m wearing a camel-colored gabardine safari suit with a red silk bandana print cravat. I have replaced over 15 buttons on my suit with black Lucite faux alligator skin buttons. On the way down to the restaurant, I see you coming up, and decide to play catch-up. How difficult could it possibly be to run up an escalator? Hooting, grubby eight year old boys do it often enough to irritate me. As it turns out, it is more difficult than it looks, but with much laughter I make it.
Here’s your ticket pack your bag: time for jumpin’ overboard
The transportation is here
Close enough but not too far, Maybe you know where you are
Fightin’ fire with fire
All wet hey you might need a raincoat
Shakedown dreams walking in broad daylight
Three hun-dred six-ty five de-grees
Burning down the house

(By J. Harrison, Jerry, D. Byrne, T. Weymouth, C. Frantz)

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I’m sitting on a painted red vintage metal stool at my kitchen counter, with my cat on my lap and drinking a rapidly cooling mug of ginger tea. I‘m throwing a Mediterranean themed potluck next Friday evening, and think I want to serve Butternut Squash & Prune Khoresht. I turn up the music; I’m listening to Big Country while compiling my grocery list, gnawing on my pencil thoughtfully as I plan my menu. Typically, I end up making more than necessary; cooking until deep in the night the day before, and knee-deep in leftovers for a week. I mull over also making a Lima Bean and Dill Kuku, as I add butternut squash, dill, lima beans and lamb to my list. Taking a final swallow of my lukewarm tea, I brush the cat off my lap, fetch my moth-eaten espresso brown wool coat with Italian tortoise buttons, and throw it on over my black ribbed turtleneck pullover, with 501 blue jeans, and black boots. I am hoping that the crowds will not be too thick at the co-op.
“I’m not expecting to grow flowers in the desert
But I can live and breathe and see the sun in wintertime
In a big country dreams stay with you
Like a lover’s voice fires the mountainside
Stay alive”

(By M. Brzezicki, B. Watson, S. Adamson, T. Butler)

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Following in the footsteps of writers Jane and Paul Bowles, I’m living in Tangier. I took the ferry over with my scooter, and now am strolling along Souk Dakhli eating a chickpea cake sprinkled with salt and paprika. I picked up some glue to add some bling to my old cracked brown cowboy boots; I have a packet of red starburst pattern rhinestone buttons, and plan cutting off the button’s shanks, then gluing them into a nine button “V” shape on each pointed boot toe. After, I am meeting a cohort at the infamous Café Hafa to drink mint tea.
“Sweeping cobwebs from the edges of my mind
Had to get away to see what we could find
Hope the days that lie ahead
Bring us back to where they’ve led
Listen not to what’s been said to you”

(By G. Nash)

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It is the first snow of the season; the flakes are falling slowly and hypnotically. They float through the muted yellow of the street light like icy fireflies. It is half past midnight, no one else is around; even the drawn-out sounds of car tires on wet pavement has stopped. I am wearing a vintage red faux fur thigh length jacket with black Lucite buttons, black leather jeans, a black wool turtleneck sweater, and cognac kidskin cowboy boots with bluebirds on the sides. I fling myself down into the soft snow to make a snow angel. Just as I have completed my wing sweep, a Kelly green MG skids around the corner with “You Can Leave Your Hat On” drifting from its half opened window, and I can hear Etta’s growl fading into the night.
“Baby, take off your coat…real slow
Baby, take off your shoes…here, I’ll take your shoes
Yes, yes, yes
You can leave your hat on”

(By R. Newman)

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I sat glumly at Psipsina while picking at my sweet crepe with whipped cream and blackberry confit. I suddenly thought of an esprit d’escalier, but of course it was no use as you were now away. A scrawny stripped grey tabby street cat wound her way around my ankles, and I leaned down to pet her behind one raggedy ear. My olive Italian Lucite and rhinestone cuff buttons caught the sunlight, blinding the poor kitty, and she scattered away from my table. Oscar Wilde said it best, “A gentleman is one who never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally.”

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