my self-imposed vacation to deep left field. And although my recovery was quick, on returning to the office I looked at these projects as if they were advertisements for lawn furniture with a seahorse motif.
I just wanted to hang around. Shrug. Drink beer, watch lots of daytime television, watch my divorce happen … . Shrug.
Before, I had been driven both by a hundred-megaton ego and a will to succeed that knew no limit. Now … shrug.
Look at it this way: Have you ever noticed how difficult it is for fat people to put on their coats? One first assumes that’s because the person is so damned big they simply can’t find or maneuver themselves into the armholes.
But seen from another angle, maybe it’s because the coat can’t handle their demands. Until I needed Venasque, life had been a too-small coat I was always stretching to fit myself into.
After he’d helped me, I realized one day how easy it had become for me to put on this same “coat.” That in itself was okay, but as I grew increasingly more apathetic, the thing grew (or I shrunk) until it was almost too big and heavy for me to even carry, much less put on and wear. Does that mean I was suicidal? No, because potential suicides strike me as being full of desperation, and that emotion took far too much effort.
When Venasque died, I inherited Big Top the bull terrier and the two of us lived alone for a while in the Santa Barbara house. But that was too beautiful and lonely, so I moved us down to L.A., where I met a few times a week with Bronze Sydney, who was holding the fort of our business until I either returned or drifted away, never to be heard from again. The rest of the time I spent with Fanny or Claire, walked the dog, saw few people, and one day came across a little poem by Emily Dickinson which stuck in my mind.
My life had stood—a loaded gun
In corners—till a day
The owner passed——identified
and carried me away.
The Sultan was wearing skis.
I always wanted to begin my memoirs with some unbearably pompous line like “My mother told me the night I was born, there was an eclipse (tornado, red scarf of cloud across the moon …) which meant fate was up to no good.” Or “There was a time in my life when I only loved beautiful women with bad teeth.” Memoirs written in a gloomy Swiss hotel by an old fart who’s the only one in town amused or interested by his memories.
Now, whether this constitutes a memoir or not, I must begin with “The Sultan was wearing skis” because that’s really where I began, notwithstanding a four-decade history, a family, a shaman, various experiences and fame that had already marked me.
The Sultan of Saru was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing a kaffiyeh on his head, a yellow, purple and black ski suit like you see on the slopes of St. Moritz, and fire engine red boots and skis on his feet. We’re talking about a hotel room in Los Angeles in the middle of eighty-degree weather, mind you. Out of the corner of my eye I saw sweet little Fanny Neville sitting on one of the many couches in the room.
I crossed to her and sitting down, purposely bumped her with my ass to let her know who was boss.
“I didn’t know you were a skier, sir.”
“I am a very good skier, Harry, There are very wonderful mountains in Saru.” He turned to some of the other men in the room who were sitting around with nervous smiles. Professional smilers. “The only problem with our mountains is they are inhabited by our enemy these days.”
The smilers didn’t know how to react to that—their uncertain lips flapped up and down like wash on a line in the wind until the Boss opened his mouth and laughed loudly. He was quite a sight, guffawing in that ski get-up. I looked around the room like I’d landed on another planet. Fanny pinched my leg.
“Ah, Harry, I’m a funny man. A funny, funny man. We have our enemies, of course. Led by a madman named Cthulu who’s sure he should rule. But he is a speck of
I just wanted to hang around. Shrug. Drink beer, watch lots of daytime television, watch my divorce happen … . Shrug.
Before, I had been driven both by a hundred-megaton ego and a will to succeed that knew no limit. Now … shrug.
Look at it this way: Have you ever noticed how difficult it is for fat people to put on their coats? One first assumes that’s because the person is so damned big they simply can’t find or maneuver themselves into the armholes.
But seen from another angle, maybe it’s because the coat can’t handle their demands. Until I needed Venasque, life had been a too-small coat I was always stretching to fit myself into.
After he’d helped me, I realized one day how easy it had become for me to put on this same “coat.” That in itself was okay, but as I grew increasingly more apathetic, the thing grew (or I shrunk) until it was almost too big and heavy for me to even carry, much less put on and wear. Does that mean I was suicidal? No, because potential suicides strike me as being full of desperation, and that emotion took far too much effort.
When Venasque died, I inherited Big Top the bull terrier and the two of us lived alone for a while in the Santa Barbara house. But that was too beautiful and lonely, so I moved us down to L.A., where I met a few times a week with Bronze Sydney, who was holding the fort of our business until I either returned or drifted away, never to be heard from again. The rest of the time I spent with Fanny or Claire, walked the dog, saw few people, and one day came across a little poem by Emily Dickinson which stuck in my mind.
My life had stood—a loaded gun
In corners—till a day
The owner passed——identified
and carried me away.
The Sultan was wearing skis.
I always wanted to begin my memoirs with some unbearably pompous line like “My mother told me the night I was born, there was an eclipse (tornado, red scarf of cloud across the moon …) which meant fate was up to no good.” Or “There was a time in my life when I only loved beautiful women with bad teeth.” Memoirs written in a gloomy Swiss hotel by an old fart who’s the only one in town amused or interested by his memories.
Now, whether this constitutes a memoir or not, I must begin with “The Sultan was wearing skis” because that’s really where I began, notwithstanding a four-decade history, a family, a shaman, various experiences and fame that had already marked me.
The Sultan of Saru was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing a kaffiyeh on his head, a yellow, purple and black ski suit like you see on the slopes of St. Moritz, and fire engine red boots and skis on his feet. We’re talking about a hotel room in Los Angeles in the middle of eighty-degree weather, mind you. Out of the corner of my eye I saw sweet little Fanny Neville sitting on one of the many couches in the room.
I crossed to her and sitting down, purposely bumped her with my ass to let her know who was boss.
“I didn’t know you were a skier, sir.”
“I am a very good skier, Harry, There are very wonderful mountains in Saru.” He turned to some of the other men in the room who were sitting around with nervous smiles. Professional smilers. “The only problem with our mountains is they are inhabited by our enemy these days.”
The smilers didn’t know how to react to that—their uncertain lips flapped up and down like wash on a line in the wind until the Boss opened his mouth and laughed loudly. He was quite a sight, guffawing in that ski get-up. I looked around the room like I’d landed on another planet. Fanny pinched my leg.
“Ah, Harry, I’m a funny man. A funny, funny man. We have our enemies, of course. Led by a madman named Cthulu who’s sure he should rule. But he is a speck of
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