THE CONVERSION OF ST. PAUL, 1600-1601
Regular readers will recall my recent announcement re the undertaking of a new project: knitting. Caryll Houselander, aka the Divine Eccentric, was a big fan of learning to do some kind of hand-crafts (she whittled little animals and Biblical figures out of wood) which, at this point in my life, I am totally on board with.
After a rather severe mishap in which I attempted to “wind together” two thousands-of-meters long skeins of string-like, viscose yarn that of course became hopelessly tangled, and that I of course insisted upon taking literally five to six hours to unwind (though in my OCD way I actually, strangely, enjoyed this), followed by an abortive attempt to start a scarf while simultaneously watching Joseph Losey’s The Servant, I have re-started the scarf, and it might actually be shaping up!
I also managed to knit out a skein of beautiful red-orange ribbon and completed what turned out to be a 9-inch or so square of…What is it? I asked myself after consulting my how-to knitting book and triumphantly “binding off.” A guest (i.e. never to be used) washcloth? A welcome mat for a gay dog-house? In a burst of inspiration, I folded my creation in two, stitched up the sides, snipped off a royal blue tassel from one of the many moth-eaten lengths of tapestry draped about my room, affixed a silver cross (ditto) to the whole, and now have a kind of gerry-built makeup case! That can't travel anywhere much besides the back of my toilet as everything would fall out. Frankly, however, the whole calming, repetitive, over, around, under, and through or however it goes process is such balm to my fevered psyche that so far I hardly care whether I'm actually making anything.
|BOOTH AT THE COUNTY FAIR, ANYONE?|
TREASURES IN THE MAIL
Ten to eleven a.m. is always an exciting part of my day as this is the hour when the Filipino mailman is most likely to either shove the mail with a great clattering clomp through the bronze slot in the front door, or, in the event of a package, to knock. I always have one ear cocked and rush headlong through the living in room in the event and the other day I rec'd a shoebox-sized package, return address from my brother Joe who resides (in the house he and his wife Mimi just bought, talk about exciting) outside Atlanta, Georgia.
Joe once sent me an autographed photo of George Jones (a mutual hero). Another time he Fed-Exed me a note, written on a piece of scrap paper in black Magic Marker in my mother's hand reading: "GOL RAM IT. PUT THE SEAT DOWN!" (salvaged from the family homestead; pore Mom having been driven to distraction by a lifetime of bathroom-sharing with five sons).
In other words, a package from Joe is no small thing! This time I tore off the wrapping to find a memento he apparently picked up on The Queers' last tour through the Everglades. A varnished crocodile head with green glass eyes might not be quite as exciting as being thrown from a horse and hearing, "Saul, Saul, who dost thou persecute me?" but in my book it qualifies for a very close second. This, too, has taken up pride of place in my bathroom:
ONE OF MY MANY BOYFRIENDS
I like to keep my personal life under wraps, but I do think this photo of yours truly with the great William G. of Glendale, California, is worth sharing.
Have an adventurous weekend!