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Posts Tagged ‘square button’


I love the crinkle of chocolate wrappers. And I adore the pleated brown waxed cups that chocolates come in, each sweet morsel coddled gently until they are plucked from the box. It is a rainy night, with the water coming down in sheets so thick that the streetlights are only a faint glow in the dark. I am staying home, and in a gentle flutter of débauche am eating an aqua-colored box of Patrick Roger caramel-lime Couleurs and caramel-chocolate covered almonds for dinner. I’m wearing French blue and ocher herringbone cotton pajamas with silvery Czech glass buttons and blue velveteen slippers monogrammed in gilded threads. I lazily then turn the pages of The Affected Provincial’s Almanac by Breaulove Swells Whimsy, pop another sticky sweet into my mouth, and snuggle closer to Francy and Lulu.
“The perils of sportswear, diaphanism, self-defense for sissies, tramp aestheticism, the proper grooming of facial hair, and how to become a bon vivant–all this and much more may be found between the shimmering covers of this sleek and utterly beguiling volume. Take to your breast this artifact of grace and beauty!”
(Description of The Affected Provincial’s Almanac)

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You are having your infamous seasonal potluck, and the theme is “raisins”. We have all been painstakingly assigned categories; there is very little better in life than to receive a gilded envelope with a piece of deckled edged handmade paper inside of it, printed in India ink with the three letter word, “PIE”. I have made my Aunt Edmonia’s sour cream raisin pie in a vintage red pottery pie plate. I’ve ground fresh nutmeg on top of the luscious Southern delicacy prior to baking it, and the custard is a rich brown. I fasten the etched black horn buttons my brown and grey herringbone wool coat, wind my hand-knit brown scarf twice around my neck, search for my brown kidskin gloves, and then shoo Francy from her improvised nest and grab my helmet. I am now ready to ride my scooter across town to your place for the mid-winter festivities.
“If you want a lover
I’ll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I’ll wear a mask for you
If you want a partner
Take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand
I’m your man”

(by L. Cohen)

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I remember the train ride, and meandering through the Swiss Alps right after sunrise. The morning sun warmed my lap as it poured through the small square passenger window, and the pristine snow sparkled blindingly in the early morning light. I sleepily buttoned the forest green vintage buttons on my ocher and green striped cable-knit cardigan, straightened my dark green and navy foulard bow tie, and prepared to depart for the dining car for a light breakfast. I ordered a café au lait with some plain rolls with butter and quince jelly, and thought about my journey as I ate.
“Oh that is nice work if you can get it.
And you can get it — if you try.
Strolling with the one girl
Sighing sigh after sigh…
Oh nice work if you can get it.
And you can get it — if you try.”

(By G. Gershwin)

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It is midnight, and I am happily awake with Lulu and Francy. Rain is pouring down; I can hear cars splashing by beneath my apartment window and see the reflections of their headlights cutting through the inky night and the storm. I am fashioning bicycle handlebar tassels for my compagnon spécial, and to this crafty end, I am re-purposing discarded and hole-ridden inner tubes. I’m wearing my favorite vintage cardigan, the one with the sky blue suede front panels, matching elbow patches, and square brown leather buttons. Pet Clark is wailing “Downtown” on the stereo and I have a pile of fancy-schmancy salted brown buttery rice crispy treats by my elbow.
“When you’re alone
And life is making you lonely,
You can always go downtown
When you’ve got worries,
All the noise and the hurry
Seems to help, I know, downtown”

(By T. Hatch)

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Stepping into the deepest blue starry German night, I discover that it is chillier than I anticipated, so I run upstairs to fetch a hat. Grabbing my burnt umber felt pork pie hat with its square black horn button accent, I saunter down the street looking for an inviting place to eat. The streets are lined with trees and the sidewalks are cobblestoned. Even with a light drizzle shining mistily through the streetlights, there are flocks of people chattering and walking arm in arm. I pass Kaffeehaus after Kaffeehaus before finding the green-doored restaurant Zum Güldenen Schaf. Once inside I order shrimp in spicy garlic-olive oil sauce, lamb steak with goat cheese au gratin, and ratatouille and waffle potatoes. It is the beautiful night…perfect for Kurt Weill and “Seeräuber Jenny”.
“Meine Herren, heute sehen Sie mich Gläser abwaschen
Und ich mache das Bett für jeden.
Und Sie geben mir einen Penny und ich bedanke mich schnell
Und Sie sehen meine Lumpen und dies lumpige Hotel
Und Sie wissen nicht, mit wem Sie reden.
Und Sie wissen nicht, mit wem Sie reden.
Aber eines Abends wird ein Geschrei sein am Hafen
Und man fragt: Was ist das für ein Geschrei?
Und man wird mich lächeln sehn bei meinen Gläsern
Und man sagt: Was lächelt die dabei?”

(Words by Bertolt Brecht and music by Kurt Weill)

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