I’m just a dashboard above the lights right now, my head all bashed in and a bad accident still a very recent memory– stitches an all– Lord there is a particular ping they have designed for the acoustic pleasure of the emergency room and long shall it haunt my vistas and my visions.
So I’ve not been up to much of late, which suits me just fine, waiting for more doctors and more scans to weigh in as they can and will, but I think we can or I shall speak for myself, I personally, will take harbor and solace in the fact my command of the run-on sentence continues unabated, nay, strengthened. Slamming your head into something solid that also features a sharp edge will do that to you– both realigning priorities and reassigning your commitments. Language, your ebb tides and flows, unimpeached by the draconian masters of grammar, I am forever stalwart, your handmaiden.
Now. I’m here with the director’s cut of Das Boot, its own silent and meditative pings so much a balm to the memory of those ER piercings and pagings, those “Zzzzziinnngg– Doctor Rogers to the DC please” when I had had it under good authority if not assumption that Rogers was mine, all mine, through the duration of the stitch-up and all requisite light banter too, whatever it takes. He threaded the needle and loaded up the syringes and put me back together well and the whole time could afford a few good jokes about the matter too, which assured me once again and for the final that here was a true medical professional and I could lie back. Pass out, if need be. The need did not arise, but that was and remains beside the point.
Now its the tail-end of this dastardly sod of a weekend and a slew of follow-ups on the horizon, seeing as things are going double and I’m half sideways on my gills just trying to write this, that I thought I’d take to a little mindless internet trolling which for me, for whatever reason, in these sodden times, seems to drift me toward marked down and otherwise badly produced clothing and, specifically, items into which I can still fit and yet have no business. I am a woman of a certain age.
Any yet who among us has any business in what I came across here? You may or may not recall Zara’s recent dust up with, well let’s call it what it is, the imagery of the Third Reich, and the roaringly profitable Spanish company was taken out on its ear. Good riddance and bad form– fire the lousy wot behind that stupid shirt and send him, her, whoever, back to sixth grade social studies.
But today, in my downtrodden state with one eye half swollen shut and no broader business before me than the work of muscling through the 3 and a half hours of U-Boat defeat and the struggle for a WWII Atlantic in all its grim drizzle, well, I came across a second image for sale, this one so similar in shape, form, message as the Zara piece and perhaps even more disturbing– bananas as a stand in for the earmarking of those yellow stars? I shudder but am of meager platform, so here I call it out. “Super cute banana patch embroidered on chest”– unreal.
Pixie Market, take a good hard look at your lousy self. This isn’t tongue in cheek, it is– at best–foot in mouth.
Update: Urban Outfitters makes the same strange style choice, evoking in a tapestry the uniform gay men were made to wear in Nazi camps. What the what is going on in this world?!