Dullsville

What is the cache of such dull designs as a Burberry plaid or a Vuitton bag? Conforming designs for the rich or those who want to appear rich. Shades of brown and beige predominate along with a safe stupefying repetition.

You'd never catch Iris Apfel with a Vuitton bag. She's no conformist--let's bring back that word!--whether she's toning down colors or amping them up.

From the website "Art Knowledge News":

Elements of Style According to Iris Apfel:

1. Never take yourself or an outfit too seriously.
2. Visit the animal kingdom.
3. Consider the clergy.
4. Travel widely.
5. Go high and low.
6. Don’t fret about your age.
7. Don’t be afraid to stop traffic.

Consider the clergy? Does she mean we should dress like the pope?

Woodsman

J. and I have been together for almost fifty years, but I'm still surprised when I'm reminded of how different we are. The other day I was shocked when I opened the trunk of the car we are sharing and found what a friend would call a "vignette." All of the trunk's contents belong to J.: ice poles for winter trekking, water bottles, rope, heavy shoes, a maul, an old pill bottle full of dry strike-anywhere matches; inside the gray case are all sorts of gizmos for starting fires without matches, including lint, which catches easily. Does he soak it some fuel? I said "maul," but I don't really know if that's the correct term for the tool with the long yellow handle. I can hardly lift it. There's a hammer and two bags of fire wood. J. likes to go into the woods by himself. He doesn't carry a gun, but there must be a knife in the kit somewhere. If I shifted the bags I would probably find a hatchet.

I wouldn't dream of going into the woods by myself. I might with J. In an emergency he could save my life; in the wild, I doubt I could be useful to him.

Friend, Champagne, Purse, Wallet

V. and I met at Flora's and ordered champagne. When the bartender told me the price, I hesitated for only a few seconds, and we went ahead. The champagne was delicious, not the least bit sour or heavy. The bartender asked if this was a special occasion. I said, "Yes, we haven't seen each other for a long time."

V. and I fell into the old, bright rhythm of our usual conversations. I was glad to see him. We covered a lot of ground--the end of a romance, his family's house burning, illnesses of those we loved, my old teaching job, his current one--the two of us smartly dressed--well, he was, all in black--taking our time with the champagne and laughing.

The bartender brought water, a good thing to sip between swallows of the potent champagne. Nothing surges into my bloodstream faster than champagne.

V. said he wished he were writing more, and I, in my irritatingly positive way, told him it was possible to write about anything. I took out my purse and said I had written a poem about how, after picking over dozens and dozens of purses, I had walked away, afraid of spending money--we're talking about a lousy thirty dollars here--even though the stingy wallet I had been using pinched my fingers when I tried to pull out a card. As I had reached the door of the store, I had said to myself, "Is this the way you want to be remembered, walking away from something you like, something that does the job perfectly?" I went back and bought the purse. Isn't it garish? I love it. The designer, Ed Hardy, worked for many years as a tattoo artist and has decorated the purse with orchids, a butterfly, a heart, ribbons, a chrysanthemum into which he's stuck a big diamond. I liked putting him into the poem.

V. took out his modest, charming green wallet with a drawing of a delicate white plant "Let's think of my purse and your wallet as metaphors," I said. Of our personalities? V. can't be summed up as easily as that. As for me . . .

Jason Bateman

I watched "State of Play" because I have a weakness for Russell Crowe, but the star of this muddled film is Jason Bateman in the role of Dominic Foy, a publicist in the employ of a corrupt company with influence in Washington. They own congressmen.

Bateman has not been ruined by TV. He is known for his roles in "Arrested Development" and "Little House on the Prairie." But he has developed into a brilliant actor. As Dominic Foy, he is slick, craven, weakly handsome. His expression disintegrates from a sneer to a sickening look of fear, as the reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) threatens him in order to force him to reveal the company's secrets. In the end the only thing that holds Foy up is his well-tailored, natty clothes.

Jason Bateman should be playing leading roles.

PS: Russell Crowe's performance is flabby.

Living

I've worn a hole in the sole of my shoe. This is news? you might ask. It is. I like to wear holes in my sweaters before the moths get to them, wear shirts until the collars are threadbare, reduce my scarves to shreds, rub buttons down to nubs, wear silver off the plate, gold off the rims, break shoelaces, burst hat brims, walk the finish off the floors, leave grooves in the cabinet doors. The kettle is battered, the threshold dips. Evidence: I was here. There's not a drop left in the bottle.

Wandering

It was fine to walk out the back door and wander. I remembered a physical therapist telling me, as she worked on my back, "You're a goal-directed person, aren't you?" as if that were not such a good thing. When I think of word "goal," I see a football fly between the posts or a ball hit the net. Without a goal, I went up to Hills Pond and let my eye latch on for a moment to whatever gave me pleasure, like these cattails, intricate, fading, lush.

The air was mellow with the smell of fallen leaves just beginning to rot. The smell of fall. The Japanese maples were winey red; a black dog strained on the leash, and though there's a leash law in this town, I wanted the owner to unhook the leash as I've unhooked mine.

Talking about Catullus

Our readers group met on Friday to talk about Catullus. We spent two hours laughing and praising his work and his character. We began with the first poem of the surviving collection:

Who do I give this neat little book to

all new and polished up and ready to go?

You, Cornelius, because you always thought

there was something to this stuff of mine,

and were the one man in Italy with guts enough

to lay out all history in a couple of pages,

a learned job, by god, and it took work.

So here's the book, for whatever it's worth

I want you to have it. And please, goddess,

see that it lasts for more than a lifetime.

I said how much I liked the poem because Catullus praises the accomplishments of Cornelius. A. asked why that strengthens the poem and pointed out how Catullus often brought in other characters, so there was a trio: the poem, others, and the listeners. I said it made Catullus less of a big I-am.

L. said, his changing focus, quickened the poem. I agreed. Even when he expresses grief, he doesn't get mired in it. In a poem mourning his dead brother, he apologizes to a friend for seeming to ignore him:

Still for all my grief, Hortalus, I send you

these translations of some verse by Callimachus,

so you won't think that what you said to me just

slipped from the vague wandering fog in my mind

the way an apple her boy friend sent her in secret

pops right out of a girl's innocent young breast

because, the poor thing, she forgot all about it

under her dress and jumped up when mother came in,

there it goes bouncing across the floor, her face

is red, so she's so ashamed of herself and could cry.

We followed the poet, delighted when he veered from grief to the description of the young girl and the secret apple. The opposite of obsession, when the mind is locked in an endlessly repeating refrain.

There was so much to admire: his intimate, vital tone, his elegant lines, the way he talks to himself:

So why keep torturing yourself anymore?

Come on now, get tough, get yourself together,

the gods don't want your misery, so quit it.

He is withering on Julius Caesar and Caesar's right hand man, Mamurra. 'This could be a poem about Cheney and Bush,' L. said. Yes, but not the sex. I can't imagine them ever lusting for little girls.

57

They're beautiful together, the odd couple,

Mamurra, and Caesar his queen.

Naturally. you get two splats of shit together,

one from the city, the other from Formiae,

and you can never wash them off.

One's as sick as the other, twin diseases

in their little bed, with their little minds,

and both still fuck-hungry besides,

beating each other out after little girls.

They're beautiful together, the odd couple.

In poem 12, Catullus shames, teases and berates Asinius for stealing Catullus's prized napkins, gifts from his dearest friends:

It's not nice to use your left hand like that

at the table, Asinius, everybody busy laughing

and drinking, and you stealing their napkins.

You think it's funny? Guess again, creep . . .

I suggested that after Thanksgiving dinner, each of us write a poem in the spirit of Catullus to the creepiest of the guests. If not at Thanksgiving, after another occasion. Will we be as outspoken as Catullus?