Nothing to read.

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of skill when it comes to punctuation. You must know that I had an alternative education, and never did really learn about mundane things like grammar or sentence structure. Come to think of it, I don't think I learned long division either. However, I still have a watercolour of a weeping Statue of Liberty I created in grade 5 called Statue of Misery (I think it was in response to Free Trade or something), and I will never forget how thrilling it was to sing If I Had a Hammer at the Christmas concert (excuse me, winter conert) accompanied by glockenspiel and marimba. So, I asked my mother for help, as she is a professor of English, but she merely encouraged my "idiosyncrasy" as she is also an experimental poet and grammatical anarchist. I often wonder whether she equates the improper use of the semicolon with the coming of the Revolution, glorious and inevitable.

Today I had tea and scones with my dear friend and co-blogger Michael (his musings can be found at mildastonishment.blogspot.c0m). It is always tea AND scones with Michael. One is inconceivable without the other. My dear departed grandmother Inez thought the same thing, and I loved her for it. She was always scandalized (and rightly so) by the fact that we never had baked goods in the house. She would make do with saltines and strawberry jam, but it was a poor substitute, and we both knew it.

Anyway, back to Michael. I love getting together with Michael because he is every bit as pretentious and elitist as I am and we can indulge our proclivities to the full. Michael recently bought his boyfriend a calfskin evening wallet from Holt Renfrew. Everyone else I know would think this a horrible extravagance, but I thought it was perfectly reasonable. After all, one doesn't want the unsightly bump of a wallet to ruin the line of tuxedo pants when attending the opera. I also admire Michael because he has the gift of wearing the right colours. He has never made a faux-pas in this department. It is a rare gift, and I always tell him so. I am always amazed by his ability to look very put together, yet unstudied. This is the first lesson of style. Today Michael was wearing his brown houndstooth jacket from Harry Rosen (of course) , with a camel scarf, and a pale green sweater with light blue jeans. If Van Gogh's Sunflowers were an outfit, this would be it. Whenever I see clothes like this, I feel equal parts awe and envy, for while I love clothes, I am fickle and impulsive in my purchases. This is why I have 6 shell-pink shirts and lime green shoes that match my lime green jacket. You should note that I know these are not my colours, but I buy them anyway, and love them. To tell you the truth, my closet looks rather like an Easter basket rendered by Jackson Pollock, but I digress.

Michael is a writer, and he is in the process of moving out of his gorgeous, well apointed abode at a smart address in search of a room of his own. Or rather, rooms. As a writer, he reasoned, one's home must be workplace and sanctuary, therefore a bachelor apartment is out of the question as one must have a place to work, as well as a place to recover from it. For this reason, walls dividing spaces are a necessity and not an indulgence. I told him that I had once read that it is in a wall's very nature that it should crumble. He was impressed by my bon mot, and I told him (in between nibbles of warm cardamom-scented scone) that it was a quote from Confucius. I actually think I read it in a novel by John Le Carre. Regardless, I came across the quote in Berlin (where walls were once thought to be a necessity) so this redeems it. In any event, pedigree is less important if something is amusing.

Michael mentioned that he is thinking of starting a bookclub. But not just any bookclub. It would be called the Smart Boy's Bookclub, and we would get together and read Proust and eat brie, and be very smarmy. He asked me if I knew anyone else who would be interested in joinging, and I replied, quite honestly, that I did not. (Flashback to recent blind date: What do you do? I sing opera. Oh, is that like Phantom? Um... I don't feel so well. I think I have to leave). Michael seemed dejected. "Sometimes I think I should go out more often and meet interesting people in Vancouver. But then I wonder if I have already met all of them." I couldn't think of a reply. We drank our tea and stepped out into the grey, slighly misty Vancouver afternoon. The mountains were stunningly beautiful, and I felt for a moment that I was in a Group of Seven painting. And then I thought, who wants to stay inside and read Proust and cultivate a personality when you can look at the mountains and breathe the magnolia-scented air? Perhaps, I reasoned, a rich inner life is the consolation prize of those who cannot live in beautiful surroundings. Perhaps Michael and I are refugees from a place or time that was less beautiful, but more stimulating. Perhaps I am full of shit. But if I am, it is of the best quality.

While we were on the subject of books, I told Michael about a shop I had visited in Paris that sold only first editions. He said that the true lover of books should always seek these out, because they would be cherished. We then lamented the decline in the intrinsic value of books in western society (see post on Chapters, oh wait, there is none). I told him that we started to go to hell in a handbasket with the invention of the printing press. Not only did books become less precious, but the masses started to read.

Of course, we masses are grateful for places like Tanglewood Books, which was having a sale. So we perused. Michael mentioned that as he got older, he was beginning to enjoy reference books. My heart warmed, as I have always loved them. I think it was my way of being contrary. When I was a child, I used to go into my mother's study (remember she is a professor of English and grammatical creative) and ask for something to read. My mother's eyes would light up and she would unfurl the full panopoly of English literature, from Beowolf to Beckett. You like geography, she would say, why don't you read The Waves? You like history, why not Henry V? I was, at this point, about nine. I would exclaim "but mom, there's nothing to READ", and off I would go and devour a biography of Marie Antoinette, or my favourite, manuals on Etiquette. I still find them reaussuring, especially when one is confronted with tricky situations. For example, say you are in court mourning for an archduchess but are compelled to give a quiet supper before the theatre. How do you invite the guests? Simple. Use your informal mourning stationary (that is to say heavy vellum edged in black, sans monogram) and have your footman deliver them, but make sure he wears a plume of white or black in his hat. Colour would be an affront to the departed. I don't need to tell you that I tried to make my own mourning stationary after my grandmother died with india ink and foolscap. I thought it was appropriate to do so in order to invite Kathleen over to play Monopoly.

Even then, I knew that I was different. I tried to hide my liking for royalty and fine things, because even then, I knew it would mark me. However, in my eagerness to conceal, I revealed more than I thought. For example, I remember my mom's friend Anne asked me if I really did like the Royal Family. I replied, in horror, that of course I did not, and that my interest in them extended only to the Green Drawing Room at Windsor Castle as I found the amalgamation of the Baroque and Regency styles curiously effective.

Well, I will continue along this vein anon. I am off to rehearsal. We are preparing for Faust by Gounod. My favourite part is where we all turn our swords over to make the sign of the cross
so that the devil will go away, and sing with one accord C'est une croix qui de l'enfer nous garde (it is a cross which protects us from hell).

May my ancestors forgive me!