A Luminous Halo

"Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end." --Virginia Woolf

My Photo
Location: Springfield, Massachusetts, United States

Smith ’69, Purdue ’75. Anarchist; agnostic. Writer. Steward of the Pascal Emory house, an 1871 Second-Empire Victorian; of Sylvie, a 1974 Mercedes-Benz 450SL; and of Taz, a purebred Cockador who sets the standard for her breed. Happy enough for the present in Massachusetts, but always looking East.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Dumb Irishwoman Goes to a Party

I never partied with the Shah, or with Andy Warhol, or with Malcolm Forbes. But hey, they're all dead, and I'm still here. The tent city of Persepolis has gone back to sand, the Palais Mendoub is a government residence, and the Factory's been torn down. Fortunately for me, the Three Sisters Sanctuary is going strong, Richard Richardson throws amazing parties, and I'm always on the guest list. This time it was a St. Patrick's Day party...a couple of days late, but that was more than made up for by its being Saturday night AND the night of the Supermoon.

I can't think of a better place (that I could get to without a jet) for watching a full moon. Richard's land looks to be a former cow pasture, in the middle of nowhere with no other houses or streetlights or other signs of human habitation. One of the draws, particularly of the warm-weather outdoor parties, is the darkness. You stumble around on paths lit only by torches or jack o'lanterns. You can hear the drum circle or the bluegrass trio, but you can't figure out how to get to it. You huddle by the fire-breathing dragon for warmth, and see eerie shadows flickering over the visages of your fellow revelers.

But this wasn't that. This was a comfier, cozier party, with the Guinness flowing freely and the tables groaning with food. The magnificent woodstove was stoked at one end of the great room, and Phyllis LaTaille was playing Irish music at the other. Two of Richard's recent creations, "Birch Boy" and "Festive Empress," eyed each other shyly from opposite sides of the room. Leprechauns abounded. A multigenerational family of females came dressed as colleen pageant queens, their winning years proclaimed on their banners. I was in green from my hair ribbons to my boots, but my outfit paled before Richard's gem-encrusted green top hat, tie, jacket, and felt leprechaun shoes.

When the moon rose, the party moved outside, and a spontaneous group howl erupted. I howled along enthusiastically. Sorry, Mr. Lussier. I'm just a dumb Irishwoman, I guess.

Labels: , ,


Post a Comment

<< Home