A Thanksgiving (of sorts): the Elementary Particles of Inspiration

In Uncategorized on November 22, 2012 at 12:16 pm

My dearest fans, readers and friends,

I’d like to begin my latest discourse by assuring you all that the following is an ode of thanks.  Of course, Thanksgiving is just SO in right now.  Eeee gads!  You American humans dooooooo continue to propagate this holiday of food (fantastic!) and self aggrandisement (alright fine —  I, of anyone, understand).

But I’d be saddened, dearest ones, if you commenced reading and were thrown off by the contemplations that follow — presupposing that this is some critical, academic drivel that I am employing to tediously divulge my innermost sentiments.  In fact, the following is really just a springboard for me to…well, yes.  Alright, I suppose that is what this is.  For christsake!  Give me a break damnit!  I am SO cute!  Just LOOK:

Yesssssss, dahhhhhlings. Yes. Just LOVE me damnit. LOVE ME.

Well.  Now that we’ve settled that.  Here goes:

Some time ago, a good friend lent me a book called, “The Elementary Particles.”

Good god, readers.  Good god!

Let me just give you all a few caring words of advise.  Do not attempt to read this book if you are feeling at all blue, suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder or are seeking the help of a mental health professional.  Now, Lady Bianca Miller is no stranger to difficult, bleak or profound literature.  Why one could easily find her reading a Dostoyevsky novella on the beach while voraciously sipping a roasted boar meat infused pina colada and being fanned by a manservant or two!  But for crying out loud, if there isn’t a more twisted, depressing tale of human darkness and depravity, She’d die a happy lady not knowing of it.

The long and short of it — in this book — humans are shown, at the end, to be mere particles — and just as humans eventually decay, they can also be created from these same decayed particles. Cloning replaces sex and love ceases to exist in the process of human reproduction.

In one chapter, a protagonist dreams of an ideal world — an island where only women exist — concluding that women are indisputably better than men.  He asserts women are “gentler, more affectionate, more loving and more compassionate — less violent, selfish, cruel and self-centred. Moreover,that they are more intelligent, rational and harder working.”  He wonders what purpose men have in current day — and asserts that a society of women would be immeasurably superior, “tracing a slow, unwavering progression, with no U-turns and no chaotic insecurity, towards a general happiness.”

Just leave it to a Frenchman to concoct such representations!  Why everyone knows that a Frenchman is nothing but a bitter Italian.  And while Lady Bianca does respect and align with many of the sentiments put forth by such Frenchman, as a romantic at heart, she just cannot fully accept them!

My point in telling you all this, my dear readers, is that often sadness and disappointment can lead to beauty and inspiration.  And so, after reading this gigantic cesspool of lugubriousness months ago, I found myself  immediately turning to my favorite fluff piece of turn-of-the-century romantic literature:  A Room with a View.

Now, of course I’ve read this wonderful little book before — in my youth.  But I find it’s always good to re-read things, darlings, as words tend to have different and greater meanings as we evolve in this life.  And upon reading it, I happened upon a passage that while absolutely captured my imagination the first time around, this time, I could see it like I’d been dosed with a huge shot of dimethyltryptamine, right to the vein!  Good grief  — the rolling hills of violets and sunshine and skin and kisses blazed frighteningly, beautifully, vividly across my imagination!

Shorty after, I made a trip to the flower district on 28th street to purchase supplies for the windows of my dear little shop:

Room with a View: with violets, damnit. The way it was written. Not the way it was shown the godforsaken movie for crying out loud!

And so, this brings me full circle to this time of year, my loves.  And I tell you, in general — the flower district is a wonderful place to go.  Do you need some moss?  A fake bunny-rabbit?  Some random crystal Tchotchkes?  Would you like to be a member of the Chinese drug cartel?  Then this is the place for you.

But be warned — if you are looking for a faux turkey to adorn a lovely shop window, I’m afraid you will not find it here.  I searched high and low and every damn turkey on that wretched block was so abominably hideous that I had to look for inspiration elsewhere.

And I found it — in a different bird.  The Wild Bird:

Owl, dove, crow, peacock, cardinal, sparrow, pheasant, buzzard replaced the soul of the turkey.

The Wild Bird: Buzzard in 1950s shades, ship in a bottle, Flannery O’ Connor and Book of Spells.

So you can conclude, dear readers…by viewing the window I have created above…beauty lies not in what one had set out to obtain and accomplish from the get-go…but in the adaptation.

Moreover, my friends…in philosophizing what we have to be thankful for — well, we can either absolutely fall apart at the seams and curse this damn rat (or human, or dog or other creature for crying out loud!) race we live…or…if for a moment, we step back and look at things though a different window…we can begin to see that creatures, ourselves included, aren’t at all — and don’t need to be exactly what they seemed.

And so, one can throw myself oneself on the floor, and bite ones fist, or paw or…(what the #%$^%$ do turkeys have?) and have a complete and utter meltdown, or one can pull up ones proverbial socks and make due with the irritatingly imperfect options around.

In conclusion, I adore you all, and I am absolutely grateful to have you all in my life, but I am going to go throw a huge temper tantrum right now.  Till we meet again.

Yours thankfully,

Lady Bianca Miller


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