I KNOW, I KNOW. Where have you been, girlfriend? So hard to believe, but truth to tell, I've been MIA lo, these past several ?months because of MEN. Clarification is fiendishly in order here.
 MY PARTY ANIMALS |
I DID want you to meet my new friends first. Even Do Tell loves 'em. They (stray thought, I know. But it's my best kind. Of thinking. I don't stray. Who has time?)
were carved in Kenya - by children! In the 60's, my husband - Dr. Lt.on-a-Navy-destroyer-cruise at the time - spent a few days in Kenya and was fascinated and very attentive as he stood watching these Masai Warrior Tribe guys carve two foot-tall statues of warriors in 'war regalia' in a matter of minutes using only long, very honed sabres and quick, broad, sweeping stabs at air and oak. Attentive indeed. I always imagined ole doc turning into a frozen, white statue transfixed and formed by fear in stark contrast to the creation aborning before his stony eyes.
Well, this amazing culture has passed this exquisite art form down to the youth of the tribes. Others of them are taught to make the dyes with which the intricate figurines are then painted. There is a tiny carafe on the table and their tiny cups match the partyers. So there is one zebra, one giraffe, one elephant, one hyena, one lion and a hippo cup complementing the sippers. (Our two year-old grandson insists on calling it "Madagascar") Whatever. They cause only pleasure - unlike the 'men'.
No surprise that William De Vane was the instigator. In our current economic crisis he actually got my attention one day with, "Seriously. What's in your safe?" Instead of just muttering some abusive, well-deserved critique of this clueless precious metal pit her, I thought, "Dunno." (The guy can reduce even a semi-literate, decently educated speaker to 'pablum-speak'.) So it was that I began an unobtrusive quest for our "safe".
It wasn't long before I was obsessed with the search, pretending to pay attention to visitors or delivery persons whilst performing raggedly-executed sneezes and coughs that permitted the surreptitious head turn or drop that allowed for a glance behind a wall hanging or down to the hardwood floor in hopes of finding tell-tale marks of sharp, piercing instruments making their way en route to "the safe".
The dogs offered to help but to no avail. Finally, when I was busted by the second 'male', hubby, as I was ripping up the recently-installed wall-to-wall in the master bedroom, glaring up only long enough to hear, "We don't have a safe" in response to my barked demand as to its location, I collapsed in despair which soon morphed into anger. The observant, dear and glorious physician, seeing his wife's maniacal scouring
of the home and environs couldn't even ONCE come up with a, "Lose an earring?".
Then, this evening, while catching up on missed discussions in my writing group, I chanced upon an article pointedly titled, "Are You the Great Gatsby?". I read the saddest of possible words - and they weren't "Tinker to Evers to Chance". No, this male 'author' was pontificating about the fact that it's such a pity that this sublime literary work, compulsory reading in most high school curricula, is totally lost on our youth. Rather one must LIVE and FEEL and EXPERIENCE for quite a while before one can appreciate Fitzgerald's genius, the depth of his philosophical gropings, the abundance and variation of feelings. (and alcoholic concoctions, one could add.) LIVID. That's how my 'relaxing read' left me - drained and livid - at the obtuse meanderings of male number three.
I read ALL of Fitzgerald's work in high school. Read Gatsby several times just to admire and savor his language, his art with the literary instrument - pen/typewriter - that permitted the most vivid of pictures to Charleston in your head, paint your red, Clara Bowed lips and dive into spot-lit fountains. Then I 'lived' a bunch of decades and trebled my admiration. So when I saw this cinematic outing - twice so far - and watched Leonardo's hand grasp forward toward the green light on Daisy's dock, I could feel my body moving away from the light - rowing backwards, unable to fight the tides of fate.
(Indeed, you may be able to add a fourth male to my obstacle course because if a man designed/programmed the formatting for this site, he's the reason I can no longer get the type to 'left align'. Sorry.) But if you happen upon that article, the answer should be "YES" whether you are sixteen or sixty-one. Fitzgerald wrote for ALL seasons, all ages, all the time - 'old sport'.
Later, (Nah, sooner), Lorane. . . .
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