A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 10, 2011 || 11:54 pm

Every now and then I will hit publish on a post and think, ‘If a new reader comes in on this one they will pronounce me insane and never come back.’  Which, you know, is okay because I’m not real concerned with courting a narrow-minded audience. Jason showed up on one of those days, a day where I posited that my son may just one day write about the nuttiness of his cracked Southern momma. Jason and I have our share of disparate beliefs. We have remarkably similar personalities, temperaments, senses of humor. I always come back to this: Jason, on one of my most brokenly confessional posts, didn’t squint or flinch or judge when he spoke up to tell me he was here. I have mad respect for that fool and his big ole heart.

A few months ago, we moved into a big house in a gated community. The house is spacious and new and nothing like us. We’re filling the place up, a chair here, a small table there, but even so there are echo chambers, beige subcaverns where conversations flutter like bats. It’s a giant house, and although we are usually not assholes, it seems a place that would attract those predisposed to assholiness. It’s pretty and perfect. We’re usually not. The house yawns for order, for the Unused, for the Pottery Barn Catalog.

We received a bunch of housewarming gifts. One particular gift came in a box that was raggedly delightful, a box that looked like it had been used before, battle-tested, well-traveled. It was taped up in a no-bullshit manner: you shall not pass, O Postal Worker trying to get a piece of whatever the parcel contained. You know the person that sent the box as Jett Superior, who is very much a real life person (we know her real name, and no, we ain’t tellin’), although if William Faulkner wrote Japanese manga she’d be a perfect heroine. Inside the box: a bunch of white candlesticks. Candlesticks, it is known, make a good gift. This was not a set. Sets are fascist. Sets are easy. This was a motley band of candlesticks, of various shapes and sizes, no two alike, a Chaucerian group making that long pilgrimage from Alabama to the west coast. They were anathaema to the teachings of The Catalogs. They made perfect sense. The candlesticks were our favorite gift.

3 worked it out »

  1. Brynne 4.11.2011

    If anyone were to *not* read you because they think you’re insane, they have no business around here anyway. Insane’s kinda the point.

  2. Jason 4.11.2011

    What Kerouac said about the mad ones.

  3. Cheryl 4.18.2011

    I missed this one too. Yikes, I’m so far behind in my interwebs journey.

    I adore Jason and his wikkid ways. So very logical and so awesomely sweet.


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