Of course all of this perrenial lolling in baths of breastmilk drinking Long island iced teas, self-gazing and self reflection in deco mirrors (I’ve had to keep wiping the steam off to see my glorious reflection through the frosted palm trees) has its downside. Naturally one cannot look past the genetic physiology, that is, inferences of a less than aristocratic ancestry, hints of peasant blood, big hands and a broad flat back for logging barefoot donkeys 60 miles to the lumbermill in St Petersburg (or where have you), child bearing hips for the production of cheap labour, etc. This I suppose accounts for a secret and perverse fascination with working class louts. I once had the unfortunate experience of meeting my distant cousins at the funeral of a dear old Loved One. Third cousin John was wearing that shade of blue denim so particular to people who run up massive lay-buys at Target, and would tell me again and again how he had “worked at the railway” for thirty years; fourth cousin S- J- B- (same initials as myself) who shall take the non de plume of Jack The Ripper, had, I knew quite well, been in juvy (the Loved One told me: before he died of course: I do not mean to suggest any definite link between his death and Jack the Ripper). In any case Jack the Ripper was more than willing to show me some very affectionate and sexual miscreant-like condolences as I wept by the graveside, this despite our acquaintance going back less than 20 minutes. There was one particular moment when I actually considered pushing him off me and into the grave, but then I didn’t want to risk the coffin cracking open and me having to regret the awful suit I had picked out for the Loved One (the same one he wore at my parent’s wedding, apparently.)
THE POINT BEING, all of this idling in stunning art deco decadence like a cocaine queen in Miami has its downside, and as it is now raining outisde after three days of suffocating tropical climate, and me truly suffering in my Gatsby pool for all of that time, it has suddenly occurred to me I belong in more Arctic climes, 5 foot deep in black black mud, morbid Irish-Catholic conscience telling you that you can’t contemplate anything other than said black black mud as the point of all life is to suffer, and the oddly consoling death-like baas of sheep as they warn me away from their spawn, and a gauntlet glove so that I can pursue my one abiding passion, that is, falconry.