July 2.
The Chucks above are a part of a larger circus, which begins in Orlando last winter on a downpour day which kept me out of the parks and into my rented Chrysler to wander around and into a second-hand store, and out of it carrying a five-dollar tweed.
But you can't just buy a jacket and hope it will fit and hope it will work with whatever else you've got if in-store you can't even picture whatever else it is you've got. Jacket. Pants. Feet. And shirt. These I need fresh to put it all together. Like the rolled up canvas maps that hung above the blackboards in my 50s grade school, you pull a string and presto a complete map of the state o' Maine unfurls. Sixteen counties and you can't jumble them up they must forever stay in the order you see. By the end of July a string in my closet gets pulled so to speak and down rolls a complete outfit never to be mixed or matched with anything else, each piece dedicated to each other and only ever worn that one way and hardly ever worn at all. The feet you saw above, a surprise find, new Chucks in suede in the right size plus the hoped-for color for twenty-five delivered. Or about to be.
The jacket's a mess. Ill-fitting in an unlikeable style, but the cloth and construction are solid. It's Harris. There's work to do. Not a lot, but enough. This is a pic of the cloth...
It's darker than that and the drizzly stripes not so pronounced (my first cell phone pic). It's somewhat in pieces now, arms off waitng to cut the shoulders back. This is part of resuscitation, for the jacket dies right where it lay if it cannot be given a different life. The shoulders will be cropped, de-padded, reformed, slightly roped and sewn back together. I enjoy this sort of thing. Some of the time it can end up wrong and looking half-assed. But only the mirror sees those, just for a moment and then they're tossed for I can always come up with another five bucks, always get back to Orlando or any other place offering cast-off tweeds for nickles.
The Chucks above are a part of a larger circus, which begins in Orlando last winter on a downpour day which kept me out of the parks and into my rented Chrysler to wander around and into a second-hand store, and out of it carrying a five-dollar tweed.
But you can't just buy a jacket and hope it will fit and hope it will work with whatever else you've got if in-store you can't even picture whatever else it is you've got. Jacket. Pants. Feet. And shirt. These I need fresh to put it all together. Like the rolled up canvas maps that hung above the blackboards in my 50s grade school, you pull a string and presto a complete map of the state o' Maine unfurls. Sixteen counties and you can't jumble them up they must forever stay in the order you see. By the end of July a string in my closet gets pulled so to speak and down rolls a complete outfit never to be mixed or matched with anything else, each piece dedicated to each other and only ever worn that one way and hardly ever worn at all. The feet you saw above, a surprise find, new Chucks in suede in the right size plus the hoped-for color for twenty-five delivered. Or about to be.
The jacket's a mess. Ill-fitting in an unlikeable style, but the cloth and construction are solid. It's Harris. There's work to do. Not a lot, but enough. This is a pic of the cloth...
It's darker than that and the drizzly stripes not so pronounced (my first cell phone pic). It's somewhat in pieces now, arms off waitng to cut the shoulders back. This is part of resuscitation, for the jacket dies right where it lay if it cannot be given a different life. The shoulders will be cropped, de-padded, reformed, slightly roped and sewn back together. I enjoy this sort of thing. Some of the time it can end up wrong and looking half-assed. But only the mirror sees those, just for a moment and then they're tossed for I can always come up with another five bucks, always get back to Orlando or any other place offering cast-off tweeds for nickles.