Here you go - the Favourite Apprentice's favourite Sinatra.
Trip to the Mooooon would emerge from the depths of a Victorian Compactum, where the Favourite Apprentice was cleaning a century and a half of dust with a rag dipped in Briwax. I blame the Toluene. In combination with a system immersed in alcohol from a night out with the Animals.
There would be the occasional thump as apprentice bodies fell out of the 'pactum, having taken a trip to the moooon on toluene wings. Just open the window, mr ishmael would say, bracingly.
5 comments:
That gifts and curses should be so entwined, Mrs I. God knows why. Angel-voiced mafia-lackey Frank.
This is good about bad: https://wordverseuniverse.wordpress.com/2017/11/12/one-foot-in-eden-muir/
I was reminded of it by the lovely twitter of Malcolm Guite: https://twitter.com/malcolmguite ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor
Priestly type he is - disgraceful I know, I know - but a wonderful presence even so and a fine, critical intelligence. Look at his regular, beautiful "library visits". Worth a glance, even for pagans.
A wonderful link, mr bb, thank-you.
Toluene! That's the answer! TPTB are all huddled in closets huffing toluene. Why did we not see it? It makes everything so obvious. Angela, Emmanuel and Boris. Moiling delirious like puppies in a sack.
Thank you, mr bb, for introducing us to Malcolm Guite - I couldn't open your link, but twitter directed me to Youtube and Malcolm Guite in his library, talking about Muir's "One Foot in Eden". An Orkney lad, Muir, by origin.
Guite makes one feel a life of books, pipe tobacco and tweed is the real deal. At one time, such a life seemed to me utterly desirable - notwithstanding Henry Winterman Slim and Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes rather than pipe tobacco, but the necessity of earning a living derailed that ambition, and now I'm kind of in the habit of busyness.
i know, Mrs I, but never give up. It's a choice of fictions.
The fascination of watching Guite trying to light his pipe is a fine thing in itself.
That gave me pause, mr bb - a choice of fictions. We shape our lives and settle into them, complaining about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that necessitated each adjustment, each accommodation to duty and mammon that altered the narrative arc of the lives we envisaged when we were starry-eyed and spotty-faced teenagers. But the lives we made for ourselves have the comfort of familiarity, despite regrets for the life unlived and the lost beloved.
Anyway, moving briskly on, I don't suppose there's a Mrs. Guite, to nag about the yards and yards of beard and hair, the stink of the smoking apparatus and that troubling little cough. Drug addicts ritualise the means and process of getting the drug of choice into their systems, and it is always fascinating to observe - whether it is silk-clad Georgian ladies with their tea ceremonies, Guite extolling his choice of discs of fine tobacco, the middle-class wino with special glasses and temperature-controlled storage systems, or cocaine-chopping slebs.
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