Darling,
I've had the loveliest long vodka morning with Andrea since before the sun came up; actually, it's not ever as if I noticed it going down. It's been the most- being with Andrea and not sitting my corona no. 3 on anything flat so as to type a story to the Post in the longest of times. Laughing and lounging, the two things I love best are in abundance whenever he's got me in rapt attention.
France was spellbinding, but Spain seems reverentially sunny and soft day after day. As if I could go on forever.
I find him hot to my cool.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Saturday, April 9, 2011
SPAIN FRANCE SPAIN
HOLIDAY FROM MYSELF
Leading to my upcoming July in Pamplona, I surrendered myself respite from anticipation and joined a dinner of men. One had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did. In silence, he began to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove me!
Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into me, only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Loud in their exit, I was speechless in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at me! Darling, on cue, I was toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and he was the tops. Perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled; but being so charming and all, he played me without notice.
Two martinis (extra dry) later, he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid. I smiled. He picked up the check and took my hand. I lost my heels as we ran to the train. As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Of course Andrea hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea wired an URGENT cablegram:
JACQUELINE:
STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY CALL THIS EVENING.
FRANK’S WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, having only arrived back in Cuenca this morning, I hadn't the chance to climb to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable. So by the time I opened my door I was fraught full of spooks from his dramatic tone, that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular; and assumed it quite my right to open, finding it in my room and all. It held only a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves. They’re in my Kelly bag with the pearl handle gun tied in red ribbon from the antenna of Andrea's Aston Martin. What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucous covet of a queen's crown.
It's rather presumptuous to think I'd not jump from the casa, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a black bird in my room, you know. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Not but a moment after I'd rang for a drink from room service did Andrea dial me up in hushed tones that he’s catching the midnight train and will arrive in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for salty capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Andrea arrived looking bright as the morning he brought with him. It was as if a million long nights hadn’t passed that we weren’t together. I'm over the moon and delirious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged a time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine which I shall wear when we arrive at the police station in France. There seem far too many choices.
-Jacqueline
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain before nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in Valentino, that I myself think doesn’t say enough about me. But, it wasn't about me, truly darling. I suspected that Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest. You know how he is about his movie scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau went beyond his self, as his grin spread miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when I entered his office and reached out to let him take my hand in hello. Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled through a disarray of documents littering his desk to the floor and followed his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer a pair of my earnest heels.
He asked if the shoes fit me, and of course I said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoe smith who was coming straight over to fix one of the sole’s broken heels, then held his hand to his heart and proclaimed with a mischievous grimace that he was quite intrigued with dismantled souls.
I assured him he needn't bother, as soles weren’t made to last forever and if I wanted heels same as in his hand, I’d ring Jimmy Choo. He said it was a delight for him, the prospect of cobbling me back together.
A man is at his worst when he plans on saving my soul. Being the Inspector and all, I played along and accompanied his lines.
Moments after having relented to his soul fixation of me, the most brilliant of men walked through the Inspector's door. I was to find treasures in the intriguing Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't believe he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. His constant devotion to the Inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Rather front and center, but outback.
He seemed destined to help build my triumphant story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he appeared content he was becoming my main character. As if there’s a difference.
The lieutenant will have to compete for the starring role in the remake of Steve McQueen’s Getaway, as Andrea wants that part more than ever.
Ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photojournalist named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk.
During an afternoon of scouting uncovered drama with the Inspector playing leader, the dashing lieutenant maneuvered our little group to his sister’s loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, south of the Seine, where she welcomes fishermen as gracefully as the titled.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in wide ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover noon stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who if she smells smoke brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
She looks practically royal in her subjective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A spectacular girl.
Lt. John Kirk told me he employs a small army of men to follow his sister when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he can’t ever be too certain that her ballerina flats will pirouette her out of a jam. It’s sub rosa, as he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to find a brigade of men dressed for war close behind because she’s monogamous in her love affairs, you know.
He’s all about gallant family obsessions.
R. Kate’s in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess to stumble into, as we've become the fastest of friends and want nothing more than to talk endlessly all about ourselves!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moon pies and as bright as banana flavored ones.
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Darling, Andrea wasn’t able to keep his promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly macramé none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend at their grand family estate in the country before we travel to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. We met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. is the oldest of the girls and no doubt a masquerading duchess, as she presented herself amused with our zany laughter, but not much. And she's rather intellectual, as you’d expect, but doesn’t share much of herself, as she prefers to paint her tomorrows endlessly today. The youngest is Rory, a true grit sort of girl, who has an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery, more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our requested whims.
It was a brilliant weekend of sporting events what with riding Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the fields behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices.
However, she doesn’t appear trampled and fell gracefully into my stories without requiring a rehearsal of information I dread sharing with unknown characters. She applauded the backdrops of my adventures, which are nothing more than tossed chapters of my unfolding drama that keep the Inspector’s brows high in suspicion of me!
Their father's been dead for years and no one seems to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandalous friends that her father had been a bad artist who went mad from the fumes. Their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra un-ordinarily excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't stop a sentence without becoming overwrought with eccentric joy in the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to join this cadre of bright people at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Postscript: I wired the Inspector he will find me in Spain should he wish to submit to more of my eternally varied stories.
Leading to my upcoming July in Pamplona, I surrendered myself respite from anticipation and joined a dinner of men. One had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did. In silence, he began to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove me!
Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into me, only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Loud in their exit, I was speechless in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at me! Darling, on cue, I was toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and he was the tops. Perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled; but being so charming and all, he played me without notice.
Two martinis (extra dry) later, he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid. I smiled. He picked up the check and took my hand. I lost my heels as we ran to the train. As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Of course Andrea hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea wired an URGENT cablegram:
JACQUELINE:
STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY CALL THIS EVENING.
FRANK’S WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, having only arrived back in Cuenca this morning, I hadn't the chance to climb to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable. So by the time I opened my door I was fraught full of spooks from his dramatic tone, that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular; and assumed it quite my right to open, finding it in my room and all. It held only a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves. They’re in my Kelly bag with the pearl handle gun tied in red ribbon from the antenna of Andrea's Aston Martin. What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucous covet of a queen's crown.
It's rather presumptuous to think I'd not jump from the casa, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a black bird in my room, you know. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Not but a moment after I'd rang for a drink from room service did Andrea dial me up in hushed tones that he’s catching the midnight train and will arrive in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for salty capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Andrea arrived looking bright as the morning he brought with him. It was as if a million long nights hadn’t passed that we weren’t together. I'm over the moon and delirious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged a time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine which I shall wear when we arrive at the police station in France. There seem far too many choices.
-Jacqueline
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain before nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in Valentino, that I myself think doesn’t say enough about me. But, it wasn't about me, truly darling. I suspected that Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest. You know how he is about his movie scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau went beyond his self, as his grin spread miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when I entered his office and reached out to let him take my hand in hello. Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled through a disarray of documents littering his desk to the floor and followed his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer a pair of my earnest heels.
He asked if the shoes fit me, and of course I said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoe smith who was coming straight over to fix one of the sole’s broken heels, then held his hand to his heart and proclaimed with a mischievous grimace that he was quite intrigued with dismantled souls.
I assured him he needn't bother, as soles weren’t made to last forever and if I wanted heels same as in his hand, I’d ring Jimmy Choo. He said it was a delight for him, the prospect of cobbling me back together.
A man is at his worst when he plans on saving my soul. Being the Inspector and all, I played along and accompanied his lines.
Moments after having relented to his soul fixation of me, the most brilliant of men walked through the Inspector's door. I was to find treasures in the intriguing Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't believe he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. His constant devotion to the Inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Rather front and center, but outback.
He seemed destined to help build my triumphant story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he appeared content he was becoming my main character. As if there’s a difference.
The lieutenant will have to compete for the starring role in the remake of Steve McQueen’s Getaway, as Andrea wants that part more than ever.
Ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photojournalist named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk.
During an afternoon of scouting uncovered drama with the Inspector playing leader, the dashing lieutenant maneuvered our little group to his sister’s loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, south of the Seine, where she welcomes fishermen as gracefully as the titled.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in wide ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover noon stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who if she smells smoke brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
She looks practically royal in her subjective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A spectacular girl.
Lt. John Kirk told me he employs a small army of men to follow his sister when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he can’t ever be too certain that her ballerina flats will pirouette her out of a jam. It’s sub rosa, as he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to find a brigade of men dressed for war close behind because she’s monogamous in her love affairs, you know.
He’s all about gallant family obsessions.
R. Kate’s in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess to stumble into, as we've become the fastest of friends and want nothing more than to talk endlessly all about ourselves!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moon pies and as bright as banana flavored ones.
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Darling, Andrea wasn’t able to keep his promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly macramé none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend at their grand family estate in the country before we travel to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. We met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. is the oldest of the girls and no doubt a masquerading duchess, as she presented herself amused with our zany laughter, but not much. And she's rather intellectual, as you’d expect, but doesn’t share much of herself, as she prefers to paint her tomorrows endlessly today. The youngest is Rory, a true grit sort of girl, who has an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery, more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our requested whims.
It was a brilliant weekend of sporting events what with riding Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the fields behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices.
However, she doesn’t appear trampled and fell gracefully into my stories without requiring a rehearsal of information I dread sharing with unknown characters. She applauded the backdrops of my adventures, which are nothing more than tossed chapters of my unfolding drama that keep the Inspector’s brows high in suspicion of me!
Their father's been dead for years and no one seems to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandalous friends that her father had been a bad artist who went mad from the fumes. Their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra un-ordinarily excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't stop a sentence without becoming overwrought with eccentric joy in the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to join this cadre of bright people at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Postscript: I wired the Inspector he will find me in Spain should he wish to submit to more of my eternally varied stories.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Yes, darling, we lyrically tore away Andrea's promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly confusing none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend on their grand estate in the country where we met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. was the oldest of the girls and reserved with a manner that bespoke old royal in the way she presented herself amused not much with our zany laughter and she's rather intellectual, in a hard quiet kind of way. The youngest of them was Rory who had an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our every request and whim.
It was the most pleasurable weekend of sporting events what with riding on Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mother was quite distinguished, as she seems to have effortlessly supervised the upbringing of good sports with manners this side of paradise and the other side as well. A delightful bunch the siblings were and we've invited them all to meet us in Pamplona July 7 for the running of bulls.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the field behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices. Their father's been dead for years and no one seems able to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandolous friends that her father had once been a bad oil artist who went madly insane from paint fumes and that their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra unordinarily over excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't complete a sentence what with becoming overwrought with eccentric joy at the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to have this lovely cadre of bright PEOPLE to entertain this summer in Spain.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend on their grand estate in the country where we met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. was the oldest of the girls and reserved with a manner that bespoke old royal in the way she presented herself amused not much with our zany laughter and she's rather intellectual, in a hard quiet kind of way. The youngest of them was Rory who had an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our every request and whim.
It was the most pleasurable weekend of sporting events what with riding on Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mother was quite distinguished, as she seems to have effortlessly supervised the upbringing of good sports with manners this side of paradise and the other side as well. A delightful bunch the siblings were and we've invited them all to meet us in Pamplona July 7 for the running of bulls.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the field behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices. Their father's been dead for years and no one seems able to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandolous friends that her father had once been a bad oil artist who went madly insane from paint fumes and that their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra unordinarily over excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't complete a sentence what with becoming overwrought with eccentric joy at the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to have this lovely cadre of bright PEOPLE to entertain this summer in Spain.
ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photographer named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk. The dashing leutinent took us by her loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain south of the Seine on one of our afternoons scouting uncovered drama in the company of the inspector as he played leader.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in assured ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover hot stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who smells smoke and brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
Lt. John Kirk told me that he employs a small army of men to follow her when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he's never too certain that the ballerina flats she wears could pick her up quick enough and out of a jam. It's his secret because he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to know a brigade of men dressed for war were too close behind her.
She practically looks triumphant in her objective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A truly spectacular grand girl.
She's in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess we might stumble upon, as we've become the fastest of friends and don't want to bother ourselves with stories for print, but rather talk endlessly all about us!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moonpies and as bright as the banana flavored ones.
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain befoer nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in a Valentino gray suit I myself think I've worn too many times.
But, it wasn't about me, as hard as that might be for you to digest, but truly darling, I suspected taht Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest.
You know how he is about his scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau was way beyond fantastically charming as his grin went miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when he saw me enter his office and reach out to let him take my hand in hello.
Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled for what seemed a good twenty minutes through a disarray of documents littering his desk and finally made his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer that crumpled penis song and my broken heels I'd tossed in the trash.
He asked me if teh shoes were mine, and of course I told the truth and said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoesmith who was coming straight over to fix one of the soul's broken heels.
I assured him he needn't bother, as I'd find the time to go shopping should I want a pair same as the ones in his hand. He said it was a delight for him, the pleasure of doing for ME. Truly, darling, it took all I had in me not to protest as he achingly seemed desperate to please me, which I find dreadfully pathetic when a man plans his life round me. So, I played along and accompanied his scheme.
Moments after having relented to his shoe fixtation, the most brilliant of men among others walked through the inspector's door. I was to learn scads of intiguing things of Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't belive that he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. As his contstant devotion to the inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Not your average chap. He never called me Jacqeline but began every phrase with, "Now Jack..."
I like him so very much and admire his style. A man quite his own. It's as if he wanted to help build my own story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he seemed quite certain he was becoming my main character. Is there a difference?
He'll have to compete with Andrea who wants more than ever to play Steve McQueen's staring role in the Getaway.
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
But, it wasn't about me, as hard as that might be for you to digest, but truly darling, I suspected taht Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest.
You know how he is about his scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau was way beyond fantastically charming as his grin went miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when he saw me enter his office and reach out to let him take my hand in hello.
Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled for what seemed a good twenty minutes through a disarray of documents littering his desk and finally made his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer that crumpled penis song and my broken heels I'd tossed in the trash.
He asked me if teh shoes were mine, and of course I told the truth and said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoesmith who was coming straight over to fix one of the soul's broken heels.
I assured him he needn't bother, as I'd find the time to go shopping should I want a pair same as the ones in his hand. He said it was a delight for him, the pleasure of doing for ME. Truly, darling, it took all I had in me not to protest as he achingly seemed desperate to please me, which I find dreadfully pathetic when a man plans his life round me. So, I played along and accompanied his scheme.
Moments after having relented to his shoe fixtation, the most brilliant of men among others walked through the inspector's door. I was to learn scads of intiguing things of Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't belive that he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. As his contstant devotion to the inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Not your average chap. He never called me Jacqeline but began every phrase with, "Now Jack..."
I like him so very much and admire his style. A man quite his own. It's as if he wanted to help build my own story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he seemed quite certain he was becoming my main character. Is there a difference?
He'll have to compete with Andrea who wants more than ever to play Steve McQueen's staring role in the Getaway.
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Darling, you know how I'm wild about Harry, but he's no help at all, as last I saw him was the back of his herringbone sport jacket flapping goodbye as her and Antony scootered off before I had the chance to question their nonsense.
None of it mattered though, as Andrea arrived looking dashing and it was as if a million ling nights of being separated had never passed us by. I'm over the moon and delerious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed a thing about Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged some time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine what I shall wear when we arrive at the station in France. There seem far too many choices.
None of it mattered though, as Andrea arrived looking dashing and it was as if a million ling nights of being separated had never passed us by. I'm over the moon and delerious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed a thing about Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged some time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine what I shall wear when we arrive at the station in France. There seem far too many choices.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea's sent an URGENT cablegram stating:
JACQUELINE:
MUST STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY EVENING CALL.
ANTONY SPOTTED SCOOTERING TOWARD SPAIN.
FRANK IS WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, I hadn't the chance to make it to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable and by the time I opened my door I was fraught with the spooks from his dramatic tone so that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular and figured it quite all right to open, seeing it in my room and all. It was empty other than a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves as remember, I'd found them in my Kelly bag with the pearl handled gun that had the penis song tied round it with the ribbon I'd untied from Andrea's Aston Martin before I'd gone shopping for eight pairs of sandals.
What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And, anyhow darling, you know I've hundreds of pairs. I just never told anyone ALL the clues I've been collecting for this on going masquerade of everyone's intriguing stories. Incidental or not.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucuos covet of a queen's crown.
Most certainly I jump from the casa each afternoon after having spent a morning in all it's glory once I'm prepared to make an entrance or a grand arrival. It's proposterous to think I'd do it in another manner, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a bird in my room. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Thank the saints that Betsy's still on top of my luggage as I can't imagine her deeply sweated browed face having to pack and unpack, pack, unpack, and pack every three days. She seems more responsible with her feet on the ground.
It seems as if I get no rest.
Now I suppose Harry will be all about the city once Antony drops by with my green scooter. Which I'm never driving again darling, as even parred down as I am in couture outfits to choose, not a one of them looks as desvestatingly gorgeous as they do on me in a Martin driven by Andrea.
The moment after I'd rang room service, myself, for a drink from downstairs and situated into a view from my veranda did Andre dial me up in whispered tones telling me to hush as he's taking the midnight train and will be here in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Ciao
-Jacqueline
JACQUELINE:
MUST STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY EVENING CALL.
ANTONY SPOTTED SCOOTERING TOWARD SPAIN.
FRANK IS WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, I hadn't the chance to make it to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable and by the time I opened my door I was fraught with the spooks from his dramatic tone so that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular and figured it quite all right to open, seeing it in my room and all. It was empty other than a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves as remember, I'd found them in my Kelly bag with the pearl handled gun that had the penis song tied round it with the ribbon I'd untied from Andrea's Aston Martin before I'd gone shopping for eight pairs of sandals.
What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And, anyhow darling, you know I've hundreds of pairs. I just never told anyone ALL the clues I've been collecting for this on going masquerade of everyone's intriguing stories. Incidental or not.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucuos covet of a queen's crown.
Most certainly I jump from the casa each afternoon after having spent a morning in all it's glory once I'm prepared to make an entrance or a grand arrival. It's proposterous to think I'd do it in another manner, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a bird in my room. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Thank the saints that Betsy's still on top of my luggage as I can't imagine her deeply sweated browed face having to pack and unpack, pack, unpack, and pack every three days. She seems more responsible with her feet on the ground.
It seems as if I get no rest.
Now I suppose Harry will be all about the city once Antony drops by with my green scooter. Which I'm never driving again darling, as even parred down as I am in couture outfits to choose, not a one of them looks as desvestatingly gorgeous as they do on me in a Martin driven by Andrea.
The moment after I'd rang room service, myself, for a drink from downstairs and situated into a view from my veranda did Andre dial me up in whispered tones telling me to hush as he's taking the midnight train and will be here in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Ciao
-Jacqueline
Friday, February 11, 2011
MAD WITH LUST
I'm mad, mad, simply mad with lust, darling.
Oh, you'll never believe , but Mr. Rueda, the artist with the big brown eyes, hadn't eyes for me, but for Harry! Good Lord, darling, never am I ceased to be amazed at the bounty of men I attract for Harry.
Mr. Rueda's friend, Mr. Paul Brandier, had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag to place my gloves inside. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did, as I went speechless, which you know is simply not ME, as I always have something to say. Of course, I didn't know what to say, let alone to think just what he meant. Let him what?
He then began, in silence, to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove ME!
Well, I most certainly had never. Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into and toward me only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Just snap. Like that. I was astounded in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at ME. Oh my gawd, darling, I knew right then and there I was crisp toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and Paul's the tops. He was perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled, but Paul being so charming and all, handled me as if he hadn't noticed my stammering a bit. Two martinis (extra dry) later he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid.
I smiled.
He picked up the check.
He took my hand.
I lost my heels, and we ran to the train.
As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Andrea, of course hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
Oh, you'll never believe , but Mr. Rueda, the artist with the big brown eyes, hadn't eyes for me, but for Harry! Good Lord, darling, never am I ceased to be amazed at the bounty of men I attract for Harry.
Mr. Rueda's friend, Mr. Paul Brandier, had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag to place my gloves inside. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did, as I went speechless, which you know is simply not ME, as I always have something to say. Of course, I didn't know what to say, let alone to think just what he meant. Let him what?
He then began, in silence, to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove ME!
Well, I most certainly had never. Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into and toward me only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Just snap. Like that. I was astounded in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at ME. Oh my gawd, darling, I knew right then and there I was crisp toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and Paul's the tops. He was perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled, but Paul being so charming and all, handled me as if he hadn't noticed my stammering a bit. Two martinis (extra dry) later he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid.
I smiled.
He picked up the check.
He took my hand.
I lost my heels, and we ran to the train.
As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Andrea, of course hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
CUENCA SPAIN
Harry and I just had to stop the ship to get off for a good while before we could travel further, but I'll save that story to tell if I ever happen upon a long day. Anyhow, the ship was fraught with and weighed down by Americanos, but we're now brilliantly situated in Spain.
You must know, darling, that even though I do so love the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and the like, I simply could not bear another moment in the states.
The Post rang for an article in Cuenca (KWEN-ka) and, darling, mountains with trees could not have stopped Harry and I from being the first to ship out. I do nothing beyond pinch myself in elation. Well, I sing it as well:
I'm on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find, is the love that I found ever since you've been around, it's almost put me on top of the world.
You simply would adore where we are staying in Cuenca. I'm ensconed in a hanging house. That's right, darling, not only am I walking on water, but I'm hanging above it from a rocky ridge! Majestic.
The sleep is big and luxurious. Intoxicating.
I do nothing more than read the local papers in bed with coffee and let the white crepe curtains billow just so and flutter all about me each morning. Delicious.
And the sun, oh darling, the sun is brilliant. Magnificient!
The egg's yolk- the brightest you've ever seen.
I simply cannot hesitate from reviewing myself in this splendor long enough to answer my bedside telephone. It's flashing red, but I've no doubt the messages for me at the front desk all can wait.
This moment is no further than ME. This moment I want to savor past forever. Toledo's just a 1/2 hour train ride away so I needn't worry about this and that or the time of day.
Queen Sophia left the most considerate cablegram for me to receive upon my arrival last night. Her and King Juan Carlos are busy inaugarating the new AVE trains that link Madrid to Valencia on the Mediterranean coast so we will have to wait till early next week to meet; which endlessly delights me as I'm anxious to make my entrance in the town's square and travel a good story from the PEOPLE.
I came upon a local little group mingling about the flower market and was told that Cuenca was a fortress founded by the Moors centuries ago. The house we're staying in is called a Casa Colgadas "Hanging House". Isn't it enchanting, darling?
This evening I've been invited to the Museo de Arte Abstracto Espanol, which is the center of the town's big art scene. The great artist Fernando Zobel use to live in the casa which now is the museum. It seems that no matter how I turn I find myself in ART! Even former posadas and convents are museums to Spanish art. Odd, isn't it, as I'm not that inclined to art, so it leaves me to wonder if art's not following me? Rather than life following art, because that is just so not ME.
On Good Friday they have a procession known as LaTurba in remembrance of Jesus's journey on the road to Calvery; a statue of Christ is carried through the streets while the people bang loudly on drums and shout at the figure. Rather similar to my Friday's, if not my entire predicament, in Oklahoma, you know.
Darling, they've wild boars on the avenues. Last night Harry and I dined at Parador de San Pablo where we enjoyed an eleven course meal such as oyster, bacalao, lamb and what seemed hundreds of delicacies served with baguettes sliced thinner than an onion's skin.
Afterward, we were walking through the narrow avenues when we heard screaming up ahead and saw a woman loose from her crowd running toward us shouting, "Boar, boar, wild boar!" Well, she took a turn to the lane off the right, but the boar did not! I assume the boar aren't accustomed to turns, as more likely than not they're related to bulls in all of Spain. The streets had been quiet as there was no planned festival for a running, but never the less, the boar was charging straight toward us. I'm not certain if it had anything to do with the red silk Hermes scarf printed with golden matadors on its fringe that I had elegantly tied round my neck. There seemed nothing available to stop him in his direction toward ME.
Thank God for the kindest of man, Mr. Rueda, who upon seeing my distress instantly jumped from his good crowd to sweep me right up a flight of stairs and fling me to the entrance of a grand church in procession of communion. So that we landed entwined with the Lord and on our knees. Within seconds, he looked at me with big brown eyes full of amusement and together we fell into uncontrolable laughter which startled the parishoners who looked on us with cold disapproval. Harry, distraught with worry had rushed and tripped into our scene, but I couldn't assure him my sanity for all my laughter.
The funniest thing was, it simply wasn't that funny.
Eventually, we three got up and brushed ourselves out and Mr. Rueda introduced himself to us as an artist. PLEASE, is everyone an artist? Is everything art? Fergawdsakes, I've had just about all the art a spring hat can take in a hard wind.
I suspect next someone will tell me that Hemingway conceived Lady Brett right here on these avenues.
All in all, I think I handled the circumstance like a good sport and told Mr. Rueda where we were staying, as he asked if he could telephone me later to make certain my faith after having fallen during grace.
Well, darling, he already had left me a cablegram at the front desk by the time I entered the lobby of our casa. I read it on my way up the stairs:
Lady Jacqueline-
Grateful for your landing in grace.
Be so kind as to meet my friend, Paul Brandier, and self this evening for a drink at Manolo de la Osa at 9p, please.
And must bring Harry.
-Mr. Rueda
Really darling, I'm in my Portebello linen covered feather bed, white of course, and all that I truly want is to stay in its pillows while the fresh breeze brushes
me into a siesta so as to postpone all things to consider.
-Jackie
You must know, darling, that even though I do so love the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and the like, I simply could not bear another moment in the states.
The Post rang for an article in Cuenca (KWEN-ka) and, darling, mountains with trees could not have stopped Harry and I from being the first to ship out. I do nothing beyond pinch myself in elation. Well, I sing it as well:
I'm on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find, is the love that I found ever since you've been around, it's almost put me on top of the world.
You simply would adore where we are staying in Cuenca. I'm ensconed in a hanging house. That's right, darling, not only am I walking on water, but I'm hanging above it from a rocky ridge! Majestic.
The sleep is big and luxurious. Intoxicating.
I do nothing more than read the local papers in bed with coffee and let the white crepe curtains billow just so and flutter all about me each morning. Delicious.
And the sun, oh darling, the sun is brilliant. Magnificient!
The egg's yolk- the brightest you've ever seen.
I simply cannot hesitate from reviewing myself in this splendor long enough to answer my bedside telephone. It's flashing red, but I've no doubt the messages for me at the front desk all can wait.
This moment is no further than ME. This moment I want to savor past forever. Toledo's just a 1/2 hour train ride away so I needn't worry about this and that or the time of day.
Queen Sophia left the most considerate cablegram for me to receive upon my arrival last night. Her and King Juan Carlos are busy inaugarating the new AVE trains that link Madrid to Valencia on the Mediterranean coast so we will have to wait till early next week to meet; which endlessly delights me as I'm anxious to make my entrance in the town's square and travel a good story from the PEOPLE.
I came upon a local little group mingling about the flower market and was told that Cuenca was a fortress founded by the Moors centuries ago. The house we're staying in is called a Casa Colgadas "Hanging House". Isn't it enchanting, darling?
This evening I've been invited to the Museo de Arte Abstracto Espanol, which is the center of the town's big art scene. The great artist Fernando Zobel use to live in the casa which now is the museum. It seems that no matter how I turn I find myself in ART! Even former posadas and convents are museums to Spanish art. Odd, isn't it, as I'm not that inclined to art, so it leaves me to wonder if art's not following me? Rather than life following art, because that is just so not ME.
On Good Friday they have a procession known as LaTurba in remembrance of Jesus's journey on the road to Calvery; a statue of Christ is carried through the streets while the people bang loudly on drums and shout at the figure. Rather similar to my Friday's, if not my entire predicament, in Oklahoma, you know.
Darling, they've wild boars on the avenues. Last night Harry and I dined at Parador de San Pablo where we enjoyed an eleven course meal such as oyster, bacalao, lamb and what seemed hundreds of delicacies served with baguettes sliced thinner than an onion's skin.
Afterward, we were walking through the narrow avenues when we heard screaming up ahead and saw a woman loose from her crowd running toward us shouting, "Boar, boar, wild boar!" Well, she took a turn to the lane off the right, but the boar did not! I assume the boar aren't accustomed to turns, as more likely than not they're related to bulls in all of Spain. The streets had been quiet as there was no planned festival for a running, but never the less, the boar was charging straight toward us. I'm not certain if it had anything to do with the red silk Hermes scarf printed with golden matadors on its fringe that I had elegantly tied round my neck. There seemed nothing available to stop him in his direction toward ME.
Thank God for the kindest of man, Mr. Rueda, who upon seeing my distress instantly jumped from his good crowd to sweep me right up a flight of stairs and fling me to the entrance of a grand church in procession of communion. So that we landed entwined with the Lord and on our knees. Within seconds, he looked at me with big brown eyes full of amusement and together we fell into uncontrolable laughter which startled the parishoners who looked on us with cold disapproval. Harry, distraught with worry had rushed and tripped into our scene, but I couldn't assure him my sanity for all my laughter.
The funniest thing was, it simply wasn't that funny.
Eventually, we three got up and brushed ourselves out and Mr. Rueda introduced himself to us as an artist. PLEASE, is everyone an artist? Is everything art? Fergawdsakes, I've had just about all the art a spring hat can take in a hard wind.
I suspect next someone will tell me that Hemingway conceived Lady Brett right here on these avenues.
All in all, I think I handled the circumstance like a good sport and told Mr. Rueda where we were staying, as he asked if he could telephone me later to make certain my faith after having fallen during grace.
Well, darling, he already had left me a cablegram at the front desk by the time I entered the lobby of our casa. I read it on my way up the stairs:
Lady Jacqueline-
Grateful for your landing in grace.
Be so kind as to meet my friend, Paul Brandier, and self this evening for a drink at Manolo de la Osa at 9p, please.
And must bring Harry.
-Mr. Rueda
Really darling, I'm in my Portebello linen covered feather bed, white of course, and all that I truly want is to stay in its pillows while the fresh breeze brushes
me into a siesta so as to postpone all things to consider.
-Jackie
GOODBYE AMERICA & MR. DENIRO
Did you know darling, that the DeNiros own all kinds of N.Y. real estate? Yes, the Hollywood Robert DeNiro himself. Seems the family's been buying up land for generations. Anyhow, I know he found me more than fascinating last night at the Metropolitan Opera where we both were attending Puccini's La Boheme. Of course I looked nothing less than radiant in my Calvin Klein white cashmere long gown and my 62" single string of pearls.
Anyhow, Mr. DeNiro just could not stop himself from falling all over me to tell me of his cause, which I don't think I comprehended, as I only could gather from his conversation nothing but all about himself. Really, darling, he's quite the bore and is a land owner and movie star. Someone I could never bring home.
After the Opera I reluctuntly allowed him to escort me to the new hot spot, The Ace Hotel with its ever changing crowd, as it was Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, though you wouldn't have known it to look at the guests as everyone was dressed in motorcylcle ensembles. Loads of black leather!
Which of course only made my entrance as Lady Jacqueline all the more grand. As I look smashing in all white! And with a back drop of black, well, I was a diamond in the rough.
Oh darling, then I nearly ran to the nearest ship. After stopping to grab Harry and have him load my corona no.3 and all 42 pieces of LV luggage on board.
Yes, darling, our ship's out to shore. I'll soon be home.
truly,
-Jacqueline
Anyhow, Mr. DeNiro just could not stop himself from falling all over me to tell me of his cause, which I don't think I comprehended, as I only could gather from his conversation nothing but all about himself. Really, darling, he's quite the bore and is a land owner and movie star. Someone I could never bring home.
After the Opera I reluctuntly allowed him to escort me to the new hot spot, The Ace Hotel with its ever changing crowd, as it was Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, though you wouldn't have known it to look at the guests as everyone was dressed in motorcylcle ensembles. Loads of black leather!
Which of course only made my entrance as Lady Jacqueline all the more grand. As I look smashing in all white! And with a back drop of black, well, I was a diamond in the rough.
Oh darling, then I nearly ran to the nearest ship. After stopping to grab Harry and have him load my corona no.3 and all 42 pieces of LV luggage on board.
Yes, darling, our ship's out to shore. I'll soon be home.
truly,
-Jacqueline
HUNTER
Darling, I forgot to tell you of this man in Oklahoma whom I worked with in trying to save the Indians. His name was Mr. Rick W. Bisher and his passcode to everything was HUNTER and I probably needn't say more as the name says it all does it not?
He kept a giant fish tank in his office that simply stunk and had masses of women to help him fight his battles. One was named Joan (she fed the fish) and she was an only child whose mother couldn't understand the burden Joan carried in having two children rather than one. Helena,(whose sister is a stripper)scanned Mr. Bisher's documents all the while trying to repair her marriage by giving her husband a second chance and Jean who's part Indian became a grandmother much sooner than she found socially acceptable, but adored the new baby and Sydney (perhaps from Australia), who I never did figure out what she and Jean did, but Sydney's married to a man in the American military and seemed quite proud of her husband's stunning looks in uniform, though I'm quite sure her name really was Sheldie.
Anyhow darling, there were even more women down the hall, too many to name, but they all were in service fo the great HUNTER. Of course, I ran into problems, as I just didn't seem to fit, as their stories were so solid and mine, well you know me, they simply could not understand how my story was so varied and hard to pin down.
Personally, I was just thankful Joan showed everyday to feed the fish as there was no way in hell I was taking on that thankless job.
Mr. Bisher, being a trial lawyer, I found rather odd, as he seemed to lack the skill of one on one communication. I had the damndest time ever understanding him. Because he was so awful at speaking he insisted I emailed him my every thought. So he could decipher me on his own, I suppose. Darling, you know how truly tragic emailing can be, as things get lost in translation. So, I'm not certain he ever got ME.
Anyhow, that's how I came to find his passcode, as all his communication is
TOP SECRET.
And, I felt fortunate to meet this extremely wise Indian woman who'd married a German and dispensed all kinds of good solid advice everytime I found myself in a spot. Such things as:
"You gotta be shittin me?"
"Well, that ain't right."
"He ain't right, Jacqueline."
She had such the good sense about her ability to see right from wrong from my perspective that I wanted to bring her home.
But, as I told you earlier, darling, it wasn't the Indians who needed saving, as I found them splendid and sharp as a tack with great entreupenership abilities; certainly much more fascinating than apprenticaces on Mr. Trump's television show.
I just never could quite figure who HUNTER was under his passcode. I hope he's nothing with the CIA, as that little entaglement with Andrea and the Penis Song nearly put me in hospital. Even though I'm bloody intrigued to see what's the latest with Andrea in Spain.
-Jacqueline
He kept a giant fish tank in his office that simply stunk and had masses of women to help him fight his battles. One was named Joan (she fed the fish) and she was an only child whose mother couldn't understand the burden Joan carried in having two children rather than one. Helena,(whose sister is a stripper)scanned Mr. Bisher's documents all the while trying to repair her marriage by giving her husband a second chance and Jean who's part Indian became a grandmother much sooner than she found socially acceptable, but adored the new baby and Sydney (perhaps from Australia), who I never did figure out what she and Jean did, but Sydney's married to a man in the American military and seemed quite proud of her husband's stunning looks in uniform, though I'm quite sure her name really was Sheldie.
Anyhow darling, there were even more women down the hall, too many to name, but they all were in service fo the great HUNTER. Of course, I ran into problems, as I just didn't seem to fit, as their stories were so solid and mine, well you know me, they simply could not understand how my story was so varied and hard to pin down.
Personally, I was just thankful Joan showed everyday to feed the fish as there was no way in hell I was taking on that thankless job.
Mr. Bisher, being a trial lawyer, I found rather odd, as he seemed to lack the skill of one on one communication. I had the damndest time ever understanding him. Because he was so awful at speaking he insisted I emailed him my every thought. So he could decipher me on his own, I suppose. Darling, you know how truly tragic emailing can be, as things get lost in translation. So, I'm not certain he ever got ME.
Anyhow, that's how I came to find his passcode, as all his communication is
TOP SECRET.
And, I felt fortunate to meet this extremely wise Indian woman who'd married a German and dispensed all kinds of good solid advice everytime I found myself in a spot. Such things as:
"You gotta be shittin me?"
"Well, that ain't right."
"He ain't right, Jacqueline."
She had such the good sense about her ability to see right from wrong from my perspective that I wanted to bring her home.
But, as I told you earlier, darling, it wasn't the Indians who needed saving, as I found them splendid and sharp as a tack with great entreupenership abilities; certainly much more fascinating than apprenticaces on Mr. Trump's television show.
I just never could quite figure who HUNTER was under his passcode. I hope he's nothing with the CIA, as that little entaglement with Andrea and the Penis Song nearly put me in hospital. Even though I'm bloody intrigued to see what's the latest with Andrea in Spain.
-Jacqueline
SOCRATES SAW MADNESS
I'm simply flush with so many thoughts to share, with you, darling:
Last night Harry and I were been invited to join the companionship of the Rockefellers on their big ship docked to the harbor and I met the most interesting man who is an author and goes by the name V.S. Ramachandran. During our conversation of a million and one topics he told me that Socrates saw madness as a gift that provides knowledge or inspiration. Of course, I was nothing but absorbed with the subject as I'm mad for inspiration and knowldedge. Socrates found that in madness, greatness is found. And that was that for ME.
Mr. Ramachandran then went on to unfold his own ideas of which I found myself loathing. He believes the colour-matching of clothes and accessories is linked to the experiences of our ancestors when they spotted a lion in the undergrowth by realizing that the yellow patches in between the leaves are parts of a single dangerous object. I know, darling, just dreadful, his analization of fashion like that. I couldn't but keep from looking toward Harry to rescue me.
Can you imagine how quickly he lost me in trying to explain to ME that my fashion sense is indebted to lions in the underbrush that my ancestors found between leaves?
Well, darling, it just goes to show you that anyone can say anthing no matter how many years they spend researching their book of ideas, but you'd be the fool to believe all their rubbish.
However brilliant you might not be, according to him, mad people are not damaged in their thinking but rather grand in their illusion of arrogance and that in itself provides opportunities to see beyond the normal dull of things to create visions of grandeur that would not, could not, exisit unless you were insane. It were as if I was in a hall of beautiful mirrors letting him go on talking about ME that way.
I myself brought to the conversation that most neurosis people carry are much heavier than my 42 pieces of LV luggage will ever be, as their baggage seems burdened with anxiety and mine are filled with designer clothes! Oh, darling, you should have seen the way his eyes fixed on mine after he'd listened to my grand ideas. So, of course, I had no choice but to go on and share with him ideas I've been pondering of late:
In this civilized world it seems to me that the myths of Greek Gods, those fearless fascinating heros who faced frightful monsters in epic battles, are much more in line with my way of thinking. Certainly you have to go no further than your childhood books of Mythology to see the beautiful creations they wore all the while fighting the evil in the world. They understood, quite like ME, that no matter the circumstance you might find yourself, the foremost important rule is to always look your best.
Well, look no further than my own personal hero, St. Joan of Arc. She most certainly showed fashion sense before her time, and she did it all the while on a battlefield to win back her beloved France. She not only was up against mighty England, but did it in the style of a man. Of course she was left no alternative back then because women were not allowed swords with their dresses. It made no fashion sense.
Joan was unequal in her fashion acumen as she instinctively knew how to belt her pants so they hung just so to show how lovely her boots matched her sword and sheild. Well darling, dear France owes their independence to Joan's understanding and appreciation of fashion on the battlefield. No doubt.
Tragically, Ms. O. still wears her belt unfashionably high which is the very reason the Americans look so damn obnoxious in their weight. It's fooling no one across certain borders. It's a sad case of The Emperor's New Clothes.
They'll simply never get unemployment solved so long as the masses assume their waist line begins right under their breasts. It's completely inappropriate but explains so much of their ignorance in over indulgence. Rather than eat properly, they simply demand Jesus Chicken on Sundays as their God given right and then lounge round and complain how the government's simply not treating them right.
What a complacent PEOPLE. There will be no revolution here other than the odd Mexican Raid, Chicken Fight or Tea Party. Your choice. Supersize, you say? Why stop there? We'll double supersize your choice; get in line.
And darling, do tell; who in their right mind would join a tea party with people who buy containers with labels that say "No Fat"? Which reminds me, please run with me to the Viadox dairy in the south of France just as soon as I'm home. I'm ravished for true heavy cream in my cup.
The irony in America stands straight up, as they eat all these gawd awful things that are wretched in taste and contain no fat, yet they are the fattest of all. Well, perhaps the irony doesn't stand straight up, but is pushing a shopping cart in their local market.
And their banks haven't any money and the people have no money and the only thing I can figure is that no matter how many people Ms. O. instructs how to grow a garden of one's own, they will forever demand Chick-fil-A at all hours so long as she continues to be on the front pages of W with her waist accented under her breast in an attempt to hide her ever increasing waist line.
I kid you not darling, these Americans have been fooled into losing all common sense and if the fashion industry over here doesn't right this wrong, I see nothing in their future other than more gluttony of which speaks despair.
Yes, I know our little Euro is having its own crisis, but that's just temporary, as we're certain to find a good hero soon enough who shall lead our country back to financial stability, which isn't that bad, as we haven't lost our fashionable comportment, you know; and well, need I say more? As I know you so agree. It's how we look when we're down that says so much about how truly spectacular we must look when we're up!
And with William now marrying Cate Middleton, we've so much to look forward to, as there will be so many new designs being created for the wedding that hearts will be lifted and joy restored. The monarchy shall not die with Lizbeth, what with Charles off pandering himself to the commonors and the like. There's hope in the air, darling.
Cate's told me herself that she's selecting hats for the upcoming season from designers all over Europe, which of course will create jobs for the millners and most importantly, she's ordering gloves to match! Everything will be fine, darling. I promise.
Ciao
Jacqueline
Last night Harry and I were been invited to join the companionship of the Rockefellers on their big ship docked to the harbor and I met the most interesting man who is an author and goes by the name V.S. Ramachandran. During our conversation of a million and one topics he told me that Socrates saw madness as a gift that provides knowledge or inspiration. Of course, I was nothing but absorbed with the subject as I'm mad for inspiration and knowldedge. Socrates found that in madness, greatness is found. And that was that for ME.
Mr. Ramachandran then went on to unfold his own ideas of which I found myself loathing. He believes the colour-matching of clothes and accessories is linked to the experiences of our ancestors when they spotted a lion in the undergrowth by realizing that the yellow patches in between the leaves are parts of a single dangerous object. I know, darling, just dreadful, his analization of fashion like that. I couldn't but keep from looking toward Harry to rescue me.
Can you imagine how quickly he lost me in trying to explain to ME that my fashion sense is indebted to lions in the underbrush that my ancestors found between leaves?
Well, darling, it just goes to show you that anyone can say anthing no matter how many years they spend researching their book of ideas, but you'd be the fool to believe all their rubbish.
However brilliant you might not be, according to him, mad people are not damaged in their thinking but rather grand in their illusion of arrogance and that in itself provides opportunities to see beyond the normal dull of things to create visions of grandeur that would not, could not, exisit unless you were insane. It were as if I was in a hall of beautiful mirrors letting him go on talking about ME that way.
I myself brought to the conversation that most neurosis people carry are much heavier than my 42 pieces of LV luggage will ever be, as their baggage seems burdened with anxiety and mine are filled with designer clothes! Oh, darling, you should have seen the way his eyes fixed on mine after he'd listened to my grand ideas. So, of course, I had no choice but to go on and share with him ideas I've been pondering of late:
In this civilized world it seems to me that the myths of Greek Gods, those fearless fascinating heros who faced frightful monsters in epic battles, are much more in line with my way of thinking. Certainly you have to go no further than your childhood books of Mythology to see the beautiful creations they wore all the while fighting the evil in the world. They understood, quite like ME, that no matter the circumstance you might find yourself, the foremost important rule is to always look your best.
Well, look no further than my own personal hero, St. Joan of Arc. She most certainly showed fashion sense before her time, and she did it all the while on a battlefield to win back her beloved France. She not only was up against mighty England, but did it in the style of a man. Of course she was left no alternative back then because women were not allowed swords with their dresses. It made no fashion sense.
Joan was unequal in her fashion acumen as she instinctively knew how to belt her pants so they hung just so to show how lovely her boots matched her sword and sheild. Well darling, dear France owes their independence to Joan's understanding and appreciation of fashion on the battlefield. No doubt.
Tragically, Ms. O. still wears her belt unfashionably high which is the very reason the Americans look so damn obnoxious in their weight. It's fooling no one across certain borders. It's a sad case of The Emperor's New Clothes.
They'll simply never get unemployment solved so long as the masses assume their waist line begins right under their breasts. It's completely inappropriate but explains so much of their ignorance in over indulgence. Rather than eat properly, they simply demand Jesus Chicken on Sundays as their God given right and then lounge round and complain how the government's simply not treating them right.
What a complacent PEOPLE. There will be no revolution here other than the odd Mexican Raid, Chicken Fight or Tea Party. Your choice. Supersize, you say? Why stop there? We'll double supersize your choice; get in line.
And darling, do tell; who in their right mind would join a tea party with people who buy containers with labels that say "No Fat"? Which reminds me, please run with me to the Viadox dairy in the south of France just as soon as I'm home. I'm ravished for true heavy cream in my cup.
The irony in America stands straight up, as they eat all these gawd awful things that are wretched in taste and contain no fat, yet they are the fattest of all. Well, perhaps the irony doesn't stand straight up, but is pushing a shopping cart in their local market.
And their banks haven't any money and the people have no money and the only thing I can figure is that no matter how many people Ms. O. instructs how to grow a garden of one's own, they will forever demand Chick-fil-A at all hours so long as she continues to be on the front pages of W with her waist accented under her breast in an attempt to hide her ever increasing waist line.
I kid you not darling, these Americans have been fooled into losing all common sense and if the fashion industry over here doesn't right this wrong, I see nothing in their future other than more gluttony of which speaks despair.
Yes, I know our little Euro is having its own crisis, but that's just temporary, as we're certain to find a good hero soon enough who shall lead our country back to financial stability, which isn't that bad, as we haven't lost our fashionable comportment, you know; and well, need I say more? As I know you so agree. It's how we look when we're down that says so much about how truly spectacular we must look when we're up!
And with William now marrying Cate Middleton, we've so much to look forward to, as there will be so many new designs being created for the wedding that hearts will be lifted and joy restored. The monarchy shall not die with Lizbeth, what with Charles off pandering himself to the commonors and the like. There's hope in the air, darling.
Cate's told me herself that she's selecting hats for the upcoming season from designers all over Europe, which of course will create jobs for the millners and most importantly, she's ordering gloves to match! Everything will be fine, darling. I promise.
Ciao
Jacqueline
CHICK fIL-A FASHION WEEK
There's been rioting in the streets of Manhattan, darling. Of the most sorrid sort. You'll be astounded, I'm sure, to know that even on the east coast of America people seem to want everything fried at anytime they damn well please, day or night, as if they feel titled.
I witnessed this myself darling, on the very eve of Fashion Week.
I looked stunning I might add in white blouse by Dior and suede cowboy-like chaps(double-sided)and trimmed in fringe by Ralph Lauren with gorgeous boots of Ostrich in orange(looking very chic American, you know). I had no more than stepped out on my way to David Zwirner's Gallery to see Philip-Lorca diCorcia's photographs, when I was stopped like a girl thrown from her mount when I saw the fat riot.
It's too true, darling, but they're demanding their "Jesus Chicken". Seems there's a franchise of sort called Chick fil-A that won't fry or serve dead hens on Sunday. Of all things to protest, truly! I suppose next I'll see Sean Penn saving them in a documentary.
It's certainly not on the unescapable level of protesting with the Egyptians for freedom, but it does serve a certain person a notion of being part of a movement, I suppose.
Not to worry, darling, I received a cablegram from Andrea this very morning along with arrangements for my travel across the ocean. I'll be home before the next frost. I haven't the oversized charcter to withstand more of the same on this shore.
Oh, and the show at Zwiner's Gallery I found dull, as having just seen people in the street dressed as chickens in wraps had left me in no mood to strut round the hen yard and have everyone gawk at my fashionable attire as if there were nothing more to chirp about than ME, though there truly wasn't. Oh, it was just awful, truly, as the photographs were wall after wall of hen houses shot in piles of chicken shit during the dust bowl and depression done in varying shades of brown; yes, nothing but brown upon brown!
I took it all in with my casual sort of charm and an eye toward the exit with a vodka in each hand. The alternative to getting looped was lassoed into clucking like the hens who were watching the crowd on the street demanding they have their Chick-fil-A's on Sundays; no matter that the proprietor finds it sacred and wants one day of seven for rest. These PEOPLE seem so crass, don't you think? If it were up to me, which of course it most certainly is not, well I'd shop for six days and rest one of seven.
And this little protest- on Fashion Week fergawsdsakes!
I'm taking to my pillow, feather downed.
-best
Jacqueline
I witnessed this myself darling, on the very eve of Fashion Week.
I looked stunning I might add in white blouse by Dior and suede cowboy-like chaps(double-sided)and trimmed in fringe by Ralph Lauren with gorgeous boots of Ostrich in orange(looking very chic American, you know). I had no more than stepped out on my way to David Zwirner's Gallery to see Philip-Lorca diCorcia's photographs, when I was stopped like a girl thrown from her mount when I saw the fat riot.
It's too true, darling, but they're demanding their "Jesus Chicken". Seems there's a franchise of sort called Chick fil-A that won't fry or serve dead hens on Sunday. Of all things to protest, truly! I suppose next I'll see Sean Penn saving them in a documentary.
It's certainly not on the unescapable level of protesting with the Egyptians for freedom, but it does serve a certain person a notion of being part of a movement, I suppose.
Not to worry, darling, I received a cablegram from Andrea this very morning along with arrangements for my travel across the ocean. I'll be home before the next frost. I haven't the oversized charcter to withstand more of the same on this shore.
Oh, and the show at Zwiner's Gallery I found dull, as having just seen people in the street dressed as chickens in wraps had left me in no mood to strut round the hen yard and have everyone gawk at my fashionable attire as if there were nothing more to chirp about than ME, though there truly wasn't. Oh, it was just awful, truly, as the photographs were wall after wall of hen houses shot in piles of chicken shit during the dust bowl and depression done in varying shades of brown; yes, nothing but brown upon brown!
I took it all in with my casual sort of charm and an eye toward the exit with a vodka in each hand. The alternative to getting looped was lassoed into clucking like the hens who were watching the crowd on the street demanding they have their Chick-fil-A's on Sundays; no matter that the proprietor finds it sacred and wants one day of seven for rest. These PEOPLE seem so crass, don't you think? If it were up to me, which of course it most certainly is not, well I'd shop for six days and rest one of seven.
And this little protest- on Fashion Week fergawsdsakes!
I'm taking to my pillow, feather downed.
-best
Jacqueline
SVELTE FOR THE PEOPLE
As always, I remain svelte; however, this sitting about on grand ships all day is taking its toll on my physical health, darling. I must say my goodbyes, no matter that the social set I've come to adore will be sore upon my departure. It's my desire I keep my travel calendar chock full of adventure if for nothing more than it's ability to keep me thin. Well, that and knowing the Post would fall flat without my brilliant articles to the PEOPLE. And, darling, you know I'd never ever report on a story without looking my best. So, not only for myself must I carry on, but for the PEOPLE.
And of course, My Sleeping Africa is never far from my thoughts. I can't possibly fathom that were I to arrive with an ounce of fat on the hips that a one of them would want to awake to that!
-Jacqueline
And of course, My Sleeping Africa is never far from my thoughts. I can't possibly fathom that were I to arrive with an ounce of fat on the hips that a one of them would want to awake to that!
-Jacqueline
MEL GIBSON: THE OUTLAW
Darling, have you seen the latest issue of Vanity Fair? The cover spread had the look of sophistication but I found the articles lacking style. So, I had to wire Graydon immediately after reading the piece on Mr. Gibson, as I find the people's persecution of him more outlandish than any acts of his bad judgment under duress:
Graydon, dear:
Jesus was an outlaw in the land of plenty and among those persecuted.
Let Mr. Gibson carry his own cross and God be his judge, not you or me.
The people sailed across the ocean blue to establish America, a land of plenty, free from religious persecution.
They claimed freedom in their right to express their religious beliefs, which all these years later their descendants, fat in their opinions, have sadly lost and forgotten the words of their forefathers.
Mr. Gibson became a movie-maker.
And in the religion of his father he filmed his beliefs, which were strong and mighty, but not all believed.
Not all need to believe or follow the outlaw.
Mr. Gibson's crucifixion is not ours.
Let him be.
His cross is heavy.
And, he enlightens me.
-best
Jacqueline
I'm certain Graydon will telephone me this very afternoon with apologies and flowers sent to my room, as he so appreciates my percision in assessing situations when a person's character is smashed by a journalist for his inability to see human nature as astoundingly unique and not contrary to the image he portrays to the public, but a brilliant fresh light. However, I feel somewhat responsible for what Graydon allows printed, as after all I'm the one who got him that editor's job and he knows I only recommended him because I thought his skills superior. Sadly, he's disappointed me and I can only hope that he rights his ways by the time I read May's issue. At the very least.
-Jacqueline
Graydon, dear:
Jesus was an outlaw in the land of plenty and among those persecuted.
Let Mr. Gibson carry his own cross and God be his judge, not you or me.
The people sailed across the ocean blue to establish America, a land of plenty, free from religious persecution.
They claimed freedom in their right to express their religious beliefs, which all these years later their descendants, fat in their opinions, have sadly lost and forgotten the words of their forefathers.
Mr. Gibson became a movie-maker.
And in the religion of his father he filmed his beliefs, which were strong and mighty, but not all believed.
Not all need to believe or follow the outlaw.
Mr. Gibson's crucifixion is not ours.
Let him be.
His cross is heavy.
And, he enlightens me.
-best
Jacqueline
I'm certain Graydon will telephone me this very afternoon with apologies and flowers sent to my room, as he so appreciates my percision in assessing situations when a person's character is smashed by a journalist for his inability to see human nature as astoundingly unique and not contrary to the image he portrays to the public, but a brilliant fresh light. However, I feel somewhat responsible for what Graydon allows printed, as after all I'm the one who got him that editor's job and he knows I only recommended him because I thought his skills superior. Sadly, he's disappointed me and I can only hope that he rights his ways by the time I read May's issue. At the very least.
-Jacqueline
Thursday, February 3, 2011
UNBECOMING
Darling, with my identity in peril during my Oklahoma stay, it's your forgiveness I seek in not having written sooner. It seems life went to pieces.
The 18th Amendment is so unbecoming.
I'd think it best if they allowed the sale of liquor six days and Sunday as it might thwart some of the malice Oklahoman's display toward outsiders and themselves; which at best, one would hope they'd find humor disentagling themselves from their existence, which is a pretty good place to avoid altogether.
Monday, January 31, 2011
LANDLOCKED
Yes darling, it's been such the longest of times. No darling, I haven't madcap stories to share. It's been such a terribly long journey. One that nearly took me assunder. Yes, darling I'm fine, though I never got commited to the hospital of my choice to repair, but rather was thrown to the wilds of Oklahoma; which was to survive or perish. I certainly never got the opportunity I had so wished for: a luxurious hospital stay with beautiful grounds kept by the help. A staff in white that allowed me to sleep out my troubles, hold the world at bay, and only wake long enough to smell the sweet new mown grass while I lounged on its perfect lawn in a poolside chaise and had pills delivered to me on a tray for magnificent dreams till it was all over: my storm of self-doubt.
No, I hit tragedy upon travesty and no matter that I was weak, I found the strength to survive, thank God.
I cannot express all that I witnessed in Oklahoma, as it's frightening to even remember its ability to destroy a girl's joy. Oh, darling, I faced despair each time I asked for a napkin and was brought paper rather than cloth. Yes, darling, it's true. They haven't napkins crisp from starch folded just so, right. The world across one little ocean remains full of heathens using paper for grace. But, then again I suppose you can't expect them to be graceful in their table manners when they're simply mad for everything fried. Fergawdsakes, no amount of paper could soak up all that grease, ever! I refuse to accept that they know no better, as they surely must have at some point, at least, glimpsed an Emily Post book in their youth, even if it wasn't provided for them at home; there are libraries where one can find a book on good manners, you know. But, then again, I suppose you'd have to give a damn, first. And Oklahomans just seem intent on not giving a damn about anything proper.
Oklahoma is in the very center of the states of America. Landlocked. Yes, darling, that awful.
I was so fragile after praying in Ireland in my self-imposed exile that never should I ever have accepted Mr. Joe Buck's plea to help save the Indians. Well, I'll tell you straight up without hesitation that the Indians are a damn better breed than the heathens who stole their land.
You can imagine all you'd like, but you'll never come close to actually realizing how close I was to having my joy masacared in that God forsaken land, and God knows how good Oklahomans are at masacaring and scalping. And never could I figure if Route 66 for vehicles was more tragic than the Trail of Tears. It simply held nothing of pretty.
Everything was RED, a terrible shade of red, no less. It's flat land, you know; for as far as you can see, it's flat and nothing more than red. The dirt? Well, there's plenty more dirt where ever you might think there isn't. And nothing but RED. The people's anger is as red as their dirt!
It's a hard country, that's for certain, darling. Scary and wild. And I most certainly should never have gone.
The people are just as big as their cows if not bigger and look just as sad if not sadder. In line for slaughter; waiting for the end. I promise. Dreadful, and nothing more. In Oklahoma there is no where to rest upon the ocean's shore, no hope to either. It's landlocked. Misery trapped. It's one hell of a prison. Imagine the strength it took ME to put on a good show and carry on, but as you know, the survivor in me chose to laugh, even as I laughed alone. Which was always.
Oh, and they will fine you if you walk on the wrong side of the street or in the rain, or both. They'll judge you if you haven't a license to drive, as they haven't even a public transport system other than the odd city bus that goes this way and that, but nowhere you need be. A cirlce of living hell, I'm telling you, darling.
Most certainly, I understand now why they've so many country singers, as the only way to survive there is with hope that you'll get out. And so they sing for thier supper, those who have dreams. Most Oklahomans do not have a dream, but those few who do, sing till a recording label discovers them and sends money to them and they find a big bus that actually leads out of that place and gets them to Texas where they can catch a flight to Hollywood and become a big star and send money home to their mom so she can feed all her children that hope left behind, because their dad's a drunk and never had the money to feed them in the first place.
And all the while, these Oklahomans told me how they pitied the Irish, down right judged them wrong for singing their hero folk songs of defending their land; and never once turned round to look at themselves to see they sang only songs of despair.
Ironic? No.
I found it ignorant.
They are referred to as Red Necks.
Ignorant, red mad. Though they may be mad as bulls, they haven't the class of the Pamplonians of Spain who at least celebrate their charging of bulls. In Oklahoma they have a drink called Red Bull which they gulp and then go chasing Indians if they aren't one themselves.
Darling, that state nearly cost me my spirit, which is the very thing they know best how to do: steal spirits. As the Indians told me that when the Red Necks slaugheterd their people and stole all their land, they also told them, (the ones who survived the long walk on that trail)that no longer could they worship their "spirits". Well, they damn well near killed mine!
They just seem so intent on wiping out your joy, that if you aren't a survivor, you certainly better learn to be if you want to make it out of there alive. I've never met such arrogant ignorance in all my life and I'm never ever returning, ever, never. I do so hope and pray that one day the Indians will call on their "spirits" to fold the Red Necks in paper napkins before they toss them all right into their dirtiest lake of all: Eufaula
I suppose though, they, the Indians, have done something similar to that, and they're called casinos. Well, darling, that's the most brilliant scam ever created and the Indians own them all. Marvelous scalping backward, don't you think?
I don't compare. I am unfairly beautiful and have my own share of troubles that others do not.
This was not about Eloise all grown up. This was a story of survival and nothing less.
To escape the arrogant insanity of the state of Oklahoma I found my own guitar, but it was in the hands of a man, so I let him sing for the supper his way and found MY WAY.
Anyhow darling, I'm now on the shore of the Hamptons with a scotch on the rocks, and you know as well as I, that nothing can wash away a bad story like a good drink.
-Jacqueline
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