Invisible Stranger |
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Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
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Thursday, February 10, 2005
Make My Bed And Light The Light
I'm invisible, all right? You may have noticed. But shed not a tear, my little darlings, I'll never be a stranger. For I'll be around. It's just you won't see me much for a little while. That's what invisibility is all about, after all. Yet keep your wits about you, and your thieving hands off my Stellas, and you might just spot me. That faux-naïf in your comments box, reminding people not to be grubby, while needlessly-hyphenating words and letting loose with a legion of laughably-louche alliterations. That'll be me. The ex-pat brooding in a Berlin bar, pretending he's in an Otto Dix painting, and whistling some verses from Weimar, while wishing he could swim, like dolphins, like dolphins can swim. Ja, mein lieber Herr, so bin ich. The fortysomething gym queen, in the ridiculous top, grunting his way through hard iron while unsuccessfully trying not to tap his feet and sing along to the happy house they're pumping through the PA system. Yep. That's me as well. That one-time member of the fageratti, older than he looks, but much younger than he feels, cruising his constant identity-crises down Compton Street, a Dorothy Parker wannabe taking Oscar's panthers out for a stroll. Well, need you ask? In my head, if nowhere else, I'm just the wise-cracking love-child of Vampirella and Mister Tumnus himself. Returned, revamped and regular when the snowdrops come out and the pansies are in bloom once more, my dears. Then we'll meet up by the lamp-post. And the Turkish Delight's on me. |
