Blue Millionaire

[trigger warning: this post might contain cultural commentary. Then again it might not. Define culture. Define commentary.]

What does one do when an unrelenting bitter chill descends to burst water pipes, freeze plant cellular systems and make any outside activity an endurance event?

Retreat to the ragbag room, crank the oil heater up high and make random stuff from the decades of hoarded fabrics.

Rumbling in the jungle of that room, I’m having slightly unhinged fun, being an ostrich and making aprons while Rome (and Los Angeles) burns and civilization collapses. Again.

Oooh blue millionaire, blue millionaire! I’m nothing if not faithful.

So much wealth as yet unmined.

It’s a ragbag Cook Street. Just look what fell out of the coconut tree!

As always the devil’s in the details. Steal what you cannot win. Repurpose someone’s label? Who me? If the play on words works, work it, baby, work it. We all have hands in unexpected pockets. Leaning left? Leaning right? Depends on vantage point.

Rrrrawr! See Cookie bake a cake. It’s what the best trad wives do, you know.

Wear aprons, I mean, while they hone their vegan Chinese almond cake cooking skills in time for Lunar New Year. It’s tradition! They look like coins. They will make you rich. Wait! Trad wives do that?

Oh it’s just the way the cookie crumbles. See cookie crumble. Crumble cookie crumble.

What was that? Something about head in the sand? Volstruis en suikerbossie maak ‘n mens… ek het jou lief…

Ragbag aprons are available from my farmers market booth on Saturdays or contact me direct if you see something you like. Fresh batches baked weekly. Like hotcakes, the best are devoured fast. Gobble. Gobble.

For what I have and might still receive, I am truly grateful. Plumbing repairs at the shala are costing big dollars this month. Sigh. No choice but to go down the mine, liquidate some stock.

Listen to Blue Millionaire. Marianne Faithfull, 1983

You've seen him

In the undirected light of street dreams

Doing nothing -

Standing, like to seem casual

With a resemblance to people held by fear

Lit by fire and disrepair

The blue millionaire

Don't listen and keep asking -

Only stories reach this far

No one's left and no one's coming

And I will disappear

Far away from you

The American wind

And the blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

There is no such thing as the Wrong Man

Blue as the dusk that ended my day

And shut off the light and air

I wish I could tell you

How he put them in cages

Found you where you slept

Got me down with something else than bruises

Tied me to a blue chair

Lit by fire and disrepair

The blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Seen him drinking gin from pale blue bottles

Drowning in shadow

Shadows moving in

Forever imagine

Imagine it's him

Nearby the window

With dreams broken in

I don't laugh anymore - or smile

I am lost in the body

The passion of time

He is screening my dreams

And everything that's mine

Don't stay in this mirror

Other hands have left me in

You don't blow away as I do

It will be the same again

Turn and point away from here

Steal what you cannot win

From the blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue millionaire

Blue .

Song released 1983 byMarianne Faithfull, lyrics written by Barry Reynolds, Marianne Faithfull & Wally Badarou