On Dress
Arrayed in the clothes I
bought over a lifetime, but only those that I earned the money myself to buy, I
am brief. I am wearing the maroon fleece Kangol hat, with its high crown and
ear flaps, which was stolen from my locker when I worked as a library assistant
20 years ago, the satin Union Jack boxer shorts, with a high crotch and high
hem, that fitted when I was 14, paid for out of my final wages as a paperboy,
and the pair of dark blue leather shoes bought for my wedding, that I'd
mistaken for black ones in the shop and so returned.
Put together, there is poor balance between these garments, and my penis breaches the boxer shorts, but it is satisfactory, having the potential to be my signature outfit.
This is my look, and, yes, it is satisfactory, as an answer to "what would my character wear?" the question I ask myself every day when I'm deciding what to put on, imagining that it matters to someone watching me on screen, imagining too that these are the only clothes I ever wear, making them as consistent and identifiable as the grey and classical look adopted by Harold Lloyd. The outfit, flimsy as it is, will become me, and, in this light, the shoes look black once again, in my footwell on this rocket, as I journey to the moon as one of seven artists given a free seat by Yusaku Maezawa.
He gave me this free ride on the condition that I would be there to bear witness to the reactions of the other artists, who themselves will be tasked to describe the moon. They will necessarily need to observe the moon, give it their full attention, while it is my duty to resist looking at it as best I can. I am brief, and so, I suppose, what couldn't be foreseen by our sponsor is that the other six artists will have a job trying to resist looking at me. But I am not wretched, I am not embarrassed. My nutation migraine, now that we have left Earth's atmosphere, is much relieved. I feel well.
Put together, there is poor balance between these garments, and my penis breaches the boxer shorts, but it is satisfactory, having the potential to be my signature outfit.
This is my look, and, yes, it is satisfactory, as an answer to "what would my character wear?" the question I ask myself every day when I'm deciding what to put on, imagining that it matters to someone watching me on screen, imagining too that these are the only clothes I ever wear, making them as consistent and identifiable as the grey and classical look adopted by Harold Lloyd. The outfit, flimsy as it is, will become me, and, in this light, the shoes look black once again, in my footwell on this rocket, as I journey to the moon as one of seven artists given a free seat by Yusaku Maezawa.
He gave me this free ride on the condition that I would be there to bear witness to the reactions of the other artists, who themselves will be tasked to describe the moon. They will necessarily need to observe the moon, give it their full attention, while it is my duty to resist looking at it as best I can. I am brief, and so, I suppose, what couldn't be foreseen by our sponsor is that the other six artists will have a job trying to resist looking at me. But I am not wretched, I am not embarrassed. My nutation migraine, now that we have left Earth's atmosphere, is much relieved. I feel well.
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