(no subject)
August is such a strange month, or perhaps it’s only strange this year. Work is practically at a stand still since most everyone is on vacation. I sit at my desk inventing things for myself to do, deciding that I don’t really want to do that and returning to the internet for general searches and inanity.
Over the weekend I accompanied Phatz to the summer home of the Bourgeois Princess. To say that it was merely a “home”-in that average sense of gate, yard, bedrooms, etc.-would be like referring to Camp David as a cottage. The grand mansion sat on a large hill overlooking the township of Lakeview, CT. When one went down the sinuous road that led to the house, you could see that the property was surround by not modest middle class two stories, but ramshackle clapboard houses that looked just this side of devastated.
The whole scenario felt like a scene out of some Victorian novel or perhaps the Magnificent Ambersons-this might also seem so as we spent our evenings watching the BBC mini-drama The Forstye Saga-which is some what apt as American aristocracy derived from its English counterpart. And really as the owner of the home-stepfather Sir G.-is actually English, well then the scenario is not even quite twice removed from this illusion.
The house that Sir G built for the Bourgeois Princess’ mother-a former French model who spent her share of time in the Warhol Factory (evidence on their wall)-was purchased from a woman whose family was once one of the most wealthy and respected in this tiny township. But as in every great Faulkner story, the family’s riches declined with the decline of agriculture. The house fell into disrepair and by the time this woman-the wife not even a blood member of the legacy-had accrued such debt trying to manage the up keep of the house and vast property, there was nothing left to do but sell. She built a tiny home at edge of the land and sold the rest to Sir Dick (his real name, no joke). Being a kind man as well as a wealthy one, he allowed the woman’s son to remain on as the grounds and house full time care taker. Mistress Kat (the Bourgeois Princess) believes this to be an unwarranted generous gesture on her step-fathers part, as the care takes seems to tend the house with a notable animosity. It is unpleasant to deal with such resentment, so the man is banished to his small home at the edge of the property for the weekend that Mistress Kat intends to use the house.
The grand hallway consist of a sweeping wood staircase that spirals up to the second floor with exactly twelve rooms (and a bathroom connected to each). On the wall beside the staircase are seven original oil portraits of English nobility dating as far back as 1752. On the main floor there were seven rooms that ranged from ornate to as practically lived in as a room with bronze status could ever be (that was the screening room where we took our late night snacks and smoke breaks around the television).
Saturday was a torrent of rain, so we opted to drive to Audi around Connecticut and parts of Main to go antique and vintage clothes shopping. The roads were winding and the hills were a luscious green. This scenery was so unlike anything I’d ever seen-except perhaps in New Hampshire. The vintage clothes shop was like a grandmother’s attic. We found bonnets and old mink stoles. There was an adorable 1960s Londoner cap that I would have purchased had it fit just a bit better. I tried on elbow length gloves and a cape lined with fur. Eventually I settled on a cute pair of 50s style heals-unfortunately upon wearing them for the first time yesterday I discovered they cut my feet up to shit and I will likely never be able to wear them again. From there we went to an outlet mall, which was much like every other outlet mall in the world.
On Sunday we packed a picnic lunch and wine and with the neglected dog-oh the poor dog of whom I haven’t even begun to mention-we went hiking up a glorious hill that led us to a perfect panoramic view of Main and Connecticut.
Yes, the dog, when I was thinking about how I would present this story of Connecticut to others, the dog seemed to be a recurring theme. The poor black lab named Otis was bought a present for Kat’s brother when he was twelve. Now sixteen, the boy is away at boarding school most of the year, comes home for vacation when he is not traveling Europe or lazing about in the New York apartment. And as the family-though the Connecticut home is their main home-travels often the dog is mostly cared for by the care taker. He spends his days outdoors running through their land-there’s an electric fence so he knows his boundaries-and his evenings in the basement with the also neglected cat. When one first sees these animals they might be immediately struck at home friendly they are. But when you spend more time with them, you realize they are not just friendly they are starved for contact. If you give but a moments glance at either they will immediately seize upon you and will not leave until forcibly pushed away. The poor animals. If they were in normal, frequent contact with their humans, as most are, this incessant need would not be . . . well, quite so incessant. And perhaps they live as a metaphor for their owners. I thought for a long time about Rule, Kat’s sixteen year old brother, who after arriving home for the summer was sent to Costa Rica for a community preservation project (that will not doubt look outstanding on his college applications and probably cost loads of money because there were relatively few students attending, but everyone who was had a notably east coast address) and when he returns is set to spend some time one yacht-though his parents are in Main-and then head back to school. He lives a removed life where parents act as visiting or support players. At the ripe age of sixteen Rule is relatively an independent. Oh yes, Rules biological father is in Bologna and for reasons not discussed is unable to ever enter the United States. So while his mother is off being a professional wife (apparently this is her third marriage) and her father is busy being a forced ex-patriot, Rule is living the life of a relative adult, though he is but an adolescent. I imagine him, as an adult, much like his own dog, needy of attention, love and support. And all of this makes me so unbearably said, the only way I could deal with the dog was barking commands, which it obediently adhered to and otherwise ignoring him. Hmm, Rule?
Over the weekend I accompanied Phatz to the summer home of the Bourgeois Princess. To say that it was merely a “home”-in that average sense of gate, yard, bedrooms, etc.-would be like referring to Camp David as a cottage. The grand mansion sat on a large hill overlooking the township of Lakeview, CT. When one went down the sinuous road that led to the house, you could see that the property was surround by not modest middle class two stories, but ramshackle clapboard houses that looked just this side of devastated.
The whole scenario felt like a scene out of some Victorian novel or perhaps the Magnificent Ambersons-this might also seem so as we spent our evenings watching the BBC mini-drama The Forstye Saga-which is some what apt as American aristocracy derived from its English counterpart. And really as the owner of the home-stepfather Sir G.-is actually English, well then the scenario is not even quite twice removed from this illusion.
The house that Sir G built for the Bourgeois Princess’ mother-a former French model who spent her share of time in the Warhol Factory (evidence on their wall)-was purchased from a woman whose family was once one of the most wealthy and respected in this tiny township. But as in every great Faulkner story, the family’s riches declined with the decline of agriculture. The house fell into disrepair and by the time this woman-the wife not even a blood member of the legacy-had accrued such debt trying to manage the up keep of the house and vast property, there was nothing left to do but sell. She built a tiny home at edge of the land and sold the rest to Sir Dick (his real name, no joke). Being a kind man as well as a wealthy one, he allowed the woman’s son to remain on as the grounds and house full time care taker. Mistress Kat (the Bourgeois Princess) believes this to be an unwarranted generous gesture on her step-fathers part, as the care takes seems to tend the house with a notable animosity. It is unpleasant to deal with such resentment, so the man is banished to his small home at the edge of the property for the weekend that Mistress Kat intends to use the house.
The grand hallway consist of a sweeping wood staircase that spirals up to the second floor with exactly twelve rooms (and a bathroom connected to each). On the wall beside the staircase are seven original oil portraits of English nobility dating as far back as 1752. On the main floor there were seven rooms that ranged from ornate to as practically lived in as a room with bronze status could ever be (that was the screening room where we took our late night snacks and smoke breaks around the television).
Saturday was a torrent of rain, so we opted to drive to Audi around Connecticut and parts of Main to go antique and vintage clothes shopping. The roads were winding and the hills were a luscious green. This scenery was so unlike anything I’d ever seen-except perhaps in New Hampshire. The vintage clothes shop was like a grandmother’s attic. We found bonnets and old mink stoles. There was an adorable 1960s Londoner cap that I would have purchased had it fit just a bit better. I tried on elbow length gloves and a cape lined with fur. Eventually I settled on a cute pair of 50s style heals-unfortunately upon wearing them for the first time yesterday I discovered they cut my feet up to shit and I will likely never be able to wear them again. From there we went to an outlet mall, which was much like every other outlet mall in the world.
On Sunday we packed a picnic lunch and wine and with the neglected dog-oh the poor dog of whom I haven’t even begun to mention-we went hiking up a glorious hill that led us to a perfect panoramic view of Main and Connecticut.
Yes, the dog, when I was thinking about how I would present this story of Connecticut to others, the dog seemed to be a recurring theme. The poor black lab named Otis was bought a present for Kat’s brother when he was twelve. Now sixteen, the boy is away at boarding school most of the year, comes home for vacation when he is not traveling Europe or lazing about in the New York apartment. And as the family-though the Connecticut home is their main home-travels often the dog is mostly cared for by the care taker. He spends his days outdoors running through their land-there’s an electric fence so he knows his boundaries-and his evenings in the basement with the also neglected cat. When one first sees these animals they might be immediately struck at home friendly they are. But when you spend more time with them, you realize they are not just friendly they are starved for contact. If you give but a moments glance at either they will immediately seize upon you and will not leave until forcibly pushed away. The poor animals. If they were in normal, frequent contact with their humans, as most are, this incessant need would not be . . . well, quite so incessant. And perhaps they live as a metaphor for their owners. I thought for a long time about Rule, Kat’s sixteen year old brother, who after arriving home for the summer was sent to Costa Rica for a community preservation project (that will not doubt look outstanding on his college applications and probably cost loads of money because there were relatively few students attending, but everyone who was had a notably east coast address) and when he returns is set to spend some time one yacht-though his parents are in Main-and then head back to school. He lives a removed life where parents act as visiting or support players. At the ripe age of sixteen Rule is relatively an independent. Oh yes, Rules biological father is in Bologna and for reasons not discussed is unable to ever enter the United States. So while his mother is off being a professional wife (apparently this is her third marriage) and her father is busy being a forced ex-patriot, Rule is living the life of a relative adult, though he is but an adolescent. I imagine him, as an adult, much like his own dog, needy of attention, love and support. And all of this makes me so unbearably said, the only way I could deal with the dog was barking commands, which it obediently adhered to and otherwise ignoring him. Hmm, Rule?