11,041 vagabonds plus:
the manor ball
We just barely made it to the W M Ball. AH couldn't decide what to wear, and still had nothing until we rode in a carriage past Norma Desmond's old house and AH yelled stop! and, seeing a solitary candle burning, we went in through a broken bay window and crafted a quick gown out of her dusty curtains. Around the corner down the block the only thing the rental joint had left for me was an old tux that John Barrymore was once buried in the first time(Forget the gruesome details - hey, it fit).
I was still snipping AH's hair as we strode up the lighted brick winding sidewalk of Willow's place, and the doorman wouldn't let us by until AH broke into 'We Could've Danced All Night,' and he left for a bit and stuffed a pastry into her mouth, and I decked him with John Barrymore's old shiny left shoe.
It was a blast. AH was a hit. She impressed everybody with her mastery of all 5 vowels. Especially the 'O.' She even saved me by suggesting I cover up a scratch I dug into the wooden dance floor scooting a chair by covering it with an Unnamed Famous Actor's hairpiece. She smiled and I kissed her and she smiled again.
We both got dizzy by drink. And maybe the smell of old used clothes and curtains.
But most of all we got wobbly by how beautiful the Hostess shined.
quote of the day
The more enlightened our houses are,
the more their walls ooze ghosts.
~ Italo Calvino
movie trailer monday
A Face In The Crowd(1957)
Andy was sooooo good playing bad.
Now that's the actor of the man.
Latest International Blog Magazine's opinion poll excerpts concerning a vagabond's sketchbook....
"Vacuous stifling plagiarism, so awful I've returned from the grave these cold 161 years to warn everyone to forever avoid his shadow.." ~Edgar Allan Poe
"I like it I must say, but positively mental" ~Edgar Grimley
"...with prose as diluted as me and my fatherbrotherperson..." ~the kid from Deliverance
"...could write himself the wrong way down a one way street" ~Professor Backwards
"It. Stinks. Or, as they say in my industry, 'acqua di parma,' which roughly translated means, 'freshly squeezed pond scum'" ~Francisco Dalí Doorbell
"..will never be a choice side of beef in my bookclub" ~anonymous daytime talk show diva
"although I've been dead 30 years, all I gotta say is..ink. a dinka dee. a dinka dooo." ~J.D.
Garbo on her birthday(1905)
Screen test, 1949.
But she would never return
to the silver screen again.
I am Number 89 in Mag 32
It's ok, I love shapely digits
Like hour glass women
Mansfield with a tiny waist
accenting above and below
The pressure is on to publish
The white sand is falling with the delicacy of smoky gravel poured out the rear of a dump truck pounding my ear drums.
backstairs, first story window
And what is it to you?
It is a Saint. Poised with hands clasped, praying, regarding the North Star, praying to the Heavens for guidance.
Weeping Saints too need to refresh their bearings now and then.
Ah, then let us leave her be.
And recalibrate our own compass with a pint?
theory of gravity
I was out in the garden at dusk, all was quiet, and it fell on my head. But it was as though it was thrown in defiance rather than the Isaac Newton gravity theory thingy. And to have been carefully eaten slowly over time as though searching for a hidden treasure inside instead of grasping its axis and penetrating the membrane with hungry sharp incisors.
I do not know. It is the core of the problem. It’s why I invited you. I know what we discuss will not leave this room, my comrade. Sit down, sip your coffee, it is hot. No, I insist, my favorite chair, Dear Friend, scoot dog.
Funny, just then when you softly blew across the surface the misty steam twisting up and floating away from your cup appeared like a laughing ghost face. No, I only mention it because strange things have been happening, Tatyana’s portrait smiling, strange howling from Willow Manor at midnight, the dog burrowing into my bed. Just this:
This apple. Eight days now, no browning around the edges. Still firm, juicy, unbruised, God’s perfume. The uneven divot, perhaps dug with a small spoon, or more probable and my theory, the beaky surgical skill of the inscrutable Magpie. Yes, I have seen them. Yes, blue glossy wings, tail feather a mile long, yes. No, they are not in this part of the country but they appear often in my garden. But you roll your eyes. I understand. The apples on the ground? They bump against apples and roll them into neat piles methodically. If only they’d do the fallen leaves now. It’s as though they are doing it just for my benefit. Like Boo Radley, yes, a mystery. They do not eat fruit.
Magpies are not stupid like Cardinals which bang into the windows chasing their own reflection. They are a fairly vain creature. But why did it drop on me with such force? There was not a sole around. I did an immediate search. What’s that? Yes, I have a sharp knife. Shall we dissect the apple then and solve my theory? Ok. No, sit back, relax. No ghost. That thud you hear upstairs is the stupid Cardinal against the window.
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