Ebayed, purchased and am presently swaddled in an enormous old shearling coat. Emma says, "Janis Joplin. Or, no, who's that English guy who froze at the north pole?" Beard is enormous and blonde with a big streak of white down the middle. Eyes increasingly crinkled, distant, indifferent, registering irritation and humor at wrong moments. Black cowboy boots with crazy Maori-Mex stitching make me about 6'7". The phrase "get-up" might come to mind. "Costume." "Assemblage." Excessive. Outlandish. I'm starting to resemble myself. Keep adding layers.
Touch off palpable alarm and mirth upon entering Trader Joe's. Talk with skinny jeans scraggly beard guy about cloudy olive oil, how it will clear up at room temperature, whether this is a room, what the temperature might be, the increased greenness of the oil when cloudy, the weirdness and beauty of olive oil. To the no-longer-refrigerated hand-whatevered flour tortillas, which are totally fucking excellent, which excel my own attempts at tortillas, now aborted. Draw looks of amusement and horrified quasi-admiration from a woman. Buy six bags of tortillas because sometimes they're out, because they're so dern good when coated with oil and crisped on cast iron skillet on stove and then doused in butter and cinnamon sugar. Dang.
When Penny, the daughter of a colleague, was four the universe said something to me through her. She turned up at school one day in a faux shearling with enormous tortoise shell Wayfarer's which she refused to take off for the duration of my attempted interrogation. She also wore a leopard print mini-skirt, lime leggings and super sparkly ruby red slippers. Totally awesome. Now that she is five and can tell what goes together we have begun to part ways. But no matter. There was a period of time there when she was my polestar: the distant, twinkling object on which I set my gaze and kept walking. Now I will find my own way.
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