Sunday, October 22, 2006

I might spend all day looking at the Wall of Wine

I've taken some ribbing for keeping everyone posted about my Seattle coffee shop odyssey, but, as Mary Todd Lincoln says, you might as well get killed for a sheep as a lamb. (Meaning, if you're punished anyway, keep going and steal something bigger, but which makes me think Baaa! Lambie!)

Anyway, this morning I'm trying out World Cup, which is an "espresso and wine shop." Right now I'm typing while looking at the Wall of Wine.



I just finished this bizarre and amazing book by a former slave who became Mary Todd Lincoln's dressmaker and friend. My favorite moment:

"[Mrs. Lincoln]: 'I have a presentiment that he will meet with a sudden and violent end. I pray God to protect my beloved husband from the hands of the assassin.'

Mr. Lincoln was fond of pets. He had two goats that knew the sound of his voice."

Even to someone who likes to "find the animal in everything," that seems like kind of a strange non-sequitur.

Also, this is just weird: in one class, we're reading about this dressmaker, paired with a critical article about fashion (as a way to create a post-slavery identity, blah blah blah). And in my other class, as already discussed, we're reading Sartor Resartus (the Tailor Retailored--also about clothes). Did I accidentally enroll at the Fashion Institute of Technology?

And now for the last random thought of this study break, and then back to work: a syllabus sometimes reads exactly like one of those fancy menus: Truffle Flambe paired with an assertive Reisling, followed by Yeats paired with Foucault.

3 comments:

Keep Your Fork, There's Pie said...

Have you read David Berman's Lincoln assasination poem? Probably you have, and it hasn't got any goats in it, but here it is anyway:


April 13, 1865

At first the sound had no meaning.
The shot came from the balcony,
as if the play had sprung an annex,
and I, John Sleeper Clarke,
pictured stars through oak scaffolds
as the news traveled over
the chairscape like a stain.

In that dark room lit by gas jets
the Welshman to my left conceded
the armrest we'd been fighting over
and doctors and half doctors
flowed into the scarlet aisles
to help.

I did not take to the image
of a bay mare waiting in the alley
or a manhunt through Maryland.

I remember standing up
as the others did,

and how the assassin was in mid-air
when the stagehands wheeled out clouds.

Zanni said...

Hey, they have a World Cup in P-town too. I wonder if it's a chain. I'm not sure ours has wine though.

Love,
Me

Megan Savage said...

Jiminy, Sarah, you're making me want to go to grad school and I -am- in grad school. Stop doing such entertaining reading!