Memoirs of a Geisha 1: Polishing Silver
Though I've always protested that I have no patience
with, or taste for, the faggoty side of gay life
that flounces and minces and does female impersonations,
I must confess that in 9th grade English,
when Mr. Piche insisted that I must write an essay
on "My Hobby" (I protested that any hobby was beneath my
High Seriousness) and I finally succumbed to his threats,
the hobby I picked was ikebana. How the hell
I even knew that ikebana existed I can't imagine,
but Mr. Piche was horrified. The art of Japanese
flower arranging was only one degree less sissified
than cosmetology. Why not fly-tieing? Mr. P. suggested.
No, it was ikebana or nothing. Nothing won,
but I continued to decorate my notebooks with doodles
of boughs of petals and vases of flowers, wiling away
the hours. Later, when I discovered James Michener's
The Floating World, about u-kiyoe (spelling?)--I.e.,
Japanese woodcuts, along with Donald Keene's anthologies
of Japanese poetry,I converted to the fin-de-siecle religion
of japonaiserie, a religion not unlike my earlier Catholicism
in which what mattered most was the precise folds of a draped
garment, a crisp genuflexion, grace. Those things didn't count
as faggoty if a priest or a geisha did them. I'd stopped
believing in Catholicism, but I could still create
ikibane arrangements. (And still can.) I still can be
knocked out by the right bowl or vase. Such as
the one I was given two days ago, a woven bowl from Africa
that any geisha would die for. And in a similar vein, just now,
I polished nine pieces of silver (relics of country garage sales)
that had just burst their rubber band after who knows how many
years on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. Charlie taught me
(and he'd worked at Tiffany's silver department
so he should know) the best way to restore silver
to its primal brightness is with Crest toothpaste. Very gratifying.
If I don't find employment as a geisha, maybe
I could be someone's butler. But even that, I fear,
would not have met with Mr. Piche's approval.
with, or taste for, the faggoty side of gay life
that flounces and minces and does female impersonations,
I must confess that in 9th grade English,
when Mr. Piche insisted that I must write an essay
on "My Hobby" (I protested that any hobby was beneath my
High Seriousness) and I finally succumbed to his threats,
the hobby I picked was ikebana. How the hell
I even knew that ikebana existed I can't imagine,
but Mr. Piche was horrified. The art of Japanese
flower arranging was only one degree less sissified
than cosmetology. Why not fly-tieing? Mr. P. suggested.
No, it was ikebana or nothing. Nothing won,
but I continued to decorate my notebooks with doodles
of boughs of petals and vases of flowers, wiling away
the hours. Later, when I discovered James Michener's
The Floating World, about u-kiyoe (spelling?)--I.e.,
Japanese woodcuts, along with Donald Keene's anthologies
of Japanese poetry,I converted to the fin-de-siecle religion
of japonaiserie, a religion not unlike my earlier Catholicism
in which what mattered most was the precise folds of a draped
garment, a crisp genuflexion, grace. Those things didn't count
as faggoty if a priest or a geisha did them. I'd stopped
believing in Catholicism, but I could still create
ikibane arrangements. (And still can.) I still can be
knocked out by the right bowl or vase. Such as
the one I was given two days ago, a woven bowl from Africa
that any geisha would die for. And in a similar vein, just now,
I polished nine pieces of silver (relics of country garage sales)
that had just burst their rubber band after who knows how many
years on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. Charlie taught me
(and he'd worked at Tiffany's silver department
so he should know) the best way to restore silver
to its primal brightness is with Crest toothpaste. Very gratifying.
If I don't find employment as a geisha, maybe
I could be someone's butler. But even that, I fear,
would not have met with Mr. Piche's approval.