1. Here is one Norman Savage’s comment, written today, on a recent post here:
Since Google cannot discern the wheat from the chaff, one of your pieces landed in my email alerts. I’m an old fuck, been around writing, reading and publishing for a very long time, but your piece, your writing, your bullshit, is some of the dullest, transparent, phony, pseudo-intellectual, insecure, vapid, and light inconsequential stuff I’ve read in a long time. But I can take that. In fact, I could even admire the shakiness if not for the lack of heart, sweat, and risk that real “art” requires. Maybe it’s time for you to get out of a pretty limited environment and shave into new mirrors. Pack a bag, stick out your thumb, and land somewhere where words cannot be hidden behind. It might buck-up your backbone.
Normally I just spam these sorts of comments but this is entirely too precious. I hope that it is not the recipes herein recorded he finds so inconsequential — they are actually some of the most valuable posts in the entire blog. One is of course surprised that Mr. Savage feels so superior to the major poets and singers quoted here, but it is understandable in a man to get bored with my interest in clothes. And I am not sure Mr. Savage has seen a blog before. And I do periodically get comments from someone who says I am “hiding behind words,” and it is really hard to see what they mean. This is my most personal writing, my intimate writing, the writing in which I reveal myself. It is written by the person you would recognize if you met me. “Art” is what I attempt to do in my studio — this is just my house. I do not write fiction, although I would like to try it one day. The things I publish under my legal and professional name are not about me and do not use the pronoun I.
2. Vapid thing that I am, I sometimes recover from scenes like the one of which I have been complaining, in which someone tries to talk me into taking a supporting role around some addict and becomes belligerent when I refuse, by going to the French clothing stores and feasting my eyes on the elegant racks. I seek luxury, calm, and voluptuousness, and I find that looking at lovely French clothes in a calm atmosphere is one of the things that works. Normally I do not buy, but today everything was being liquidated. I bought a silvery gray jacket with abalone shell buttons in an amazing cut, costing $78. I do not have enough jackets of the suit type, so this is very good.
3. Somehow the silly events of the past two days and Mr. Savage’s comment all remind me of certain pseudo friendly underminers in graduate school. They liked to emphasize that you could not work until you were in a state to work. They were saying this as an excuse not to work, and as a way to keep others from working. I perfectly agree at one level. I have to have my workspace neat and functional. I have to be reasonably alert. And if the roof is leaking, I have to put the call in for repairmen before I sit down to work. But you do not have to wait for the perfect time. I think that line was yet one more of those pieces of advice designed to distract. L’appétit vient en mangeant. I am so glad I do not have to deal on a permanent basis with any whitemen.