The (Most) Nabobist

The only girl I’ve ever loved
Was born with roses in her eyes
But then they buried her alive
One evening, 1945
NMH

Come dance in the dark. Come to move these automotive stars. I put my hand in with dusts and blown.

I don't know about you but I'm roasting the most beautiful Proust this year. Such heavenly scents, oh my, that I may swoon before I've even get the little beast on the heat. Should there be enough public interest, I'll post pictures of the results.

The show at Webster Hall was terrific. Save me it wass attended by the hippest of the hippest of te experimental acid folk scene. Peace and luff jamz. Yes I love you. You who read these words. You who've walked the East Side from Midtown and down to the anchors. Pastrami at Katz's was rather delicious but ... as you can see I'm going for ecclectic. Tomorrow it's off to Film Forum or wherever I can find a great film. You come too. Email me, silly.

I'll see you in New York in two weeks.

Agreed.

Excellent summation on the state of the art in China this morning from Rob Gifford on NPR. Audio link con advert.

Leaving, more thoughts not rants on leaving and the ambivalence that follows. .-Lavysh gets it and goes with grace.

Given to ever infrequent visits. Hoy, but you should see me now. Hoy, moral hazards like turns of the screw. Sips of wine. Cheese.

Good night.

Art Tatum. Art Tatum. Art Tatum.

Never mind.

Oh girl, oh gold, oh beauty, oh my bliss!

The punctuality award.

Sorry, that was June.

Have just been blissfully reduced to a cultural cereal type by this Athena of a wit. "Indigenous." I may swoon as I look down to apologize for the pun.

O, Lily of the Valley.
Doesn't come but to the hill.
  Eponymous anonymous.

I, sitt and scoff, Blenheim Bouquet,
For breath to break the fell.
  Stillness stillness.

Sonnet 98

FROM you have I been absent in the spring     
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,     
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,     
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.     
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell         
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,     
Could make me any summer's story tell,     
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:     
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,     
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;     
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,     
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.     
  Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away,     
  As with your shadow I with these did play.

I burned my tastebuds away with some wasabi peas.