You Sad, Pale Man

The Rockrose Moon (A Serial Fiction) Part 37

Have I said lately how much I enjoy listening to Performance Today? This last week I listened to a show with the Schumann song #12 "A Shining Summer Morning" from a cycle of his with poems by Heinrich Heine as inspiration and text.

“On a shining summer morning
I wander around my garden.
The flowers are whispering and speaking;
I, however, wander silently.

The flowers are whispering and speaking
And look at me sympathetically.
"Do not be angry with our sister,
You sad, pale man."

I should use this poem when one of the guys is getting all weirded out and talking about living together or something.

I think that is one of my not so secret ambitions. To have a poem of mine set to music. Not to write a song, god if I were in a girl band I’d have all the recognition I crave and then some, like Angie at the store. She always whines about the arrogant dweebs when she does a gig. No I mean to have a composer fall in love with one of my poems long enough to spend time with it and then set it to music.

Even if it is just inspiration, not a literal use of the poem.

I am all excited though because one of my guys bought me a bright red nano iPod last weekend! I’ll need to get some ruby earrings to match. I love having all my music so close though and so lightweight.

That’s all I wanted to say today. I am glad summer is almost over which means the end of grilling. Everybody always wants to grill me some meat.

Veggies are fine, seriously. Truly they are.

Mules and Class

The Rockrose Moon (A Serial Fiction) Part 36

Speaking of questionable taste, I am not sure but I think without them having ever said anything, I inherited from my parents a distaste for the kind of shoes called mules.

It must have been sort of racial snobbishness on the part of both (originally from peasant stock) of them. The way they would both look at a woman flopping around in mules with that headstrong go ahead Bangkok look. Slutty. Tacky. Louche.

If I see a woman wearing mules, no matter how otherwise well dressed or lovely she might be as far as I am concerned she is off my radar. She is not someone I’d like to know.

There are those mostly not quite attractive middle aged men, the sex tourist type that sometimes tell me they want me to dress up in ripped stockings and cheap clothes and too much make-up and then put on an apron and cook for them. To be the kind of woman that wears mules.

They are sorely misguided to think I am like that, or that I would like that. To treat them like kings. So that I can stay in the US and eat bland food.

I think those kind of men are evil and they think they are the salt of the earth. That everybody now has it backward. Throwbacks!

Anyway somehow or other this brings me to Michael. He is Iranian but when we met he lied and told me he was from Turkey. My original muse.

Because he buys his clothes in Italy and wears the softest softest leather shoes. And with his moon eyes I am sure he wouldn’t like mules either, even though we never talked about it. Slides are fine. I have some fabulous Italian suede stacked heel slides but they are a world apart from even the high heeled poofed up mules.

It is like the neighborhoods, in San Francisco. You walk one block and the class has changed. I am seeing this now around the Gelato place here in Portland, around funky Powell’s. Pretty soon you won’t even be able to show your face unless your net worth is over a certain ridiculous amount and you are driving and wearing the certain fashion.

I pray with all my yogic heart that that fashion does not include mules.