In Which I Come To A Conclusion...

...of sorts. While I find les cravates and this sort of micro-writing endlessly fascinating, I no longer find the neckwear of Mr. Brian Williams to be consistently inspiring. Thankfully, the Title of this repository has planned for this eventuality. Once in a while, I will review a tie when the mood strikes, but on a capricious basis. And certainly on the Re-emergence Of The Lovely Pink Tie.

Art Heads

When I was in high school, all the art kids used to bring these grey boards to classes and use incredibly sharp, wooden-handled tools to eke out designs in them. So, while they were supposed to be listening to teachers talk about bisecting angles, titrating solutions, or punctuating subordinate clauses, they were instead digging out pieces of rubbery grey matter in varying line widths and chunks, leaving behind piles of crumbs and curls. Brian's tie tonight reminds me of those projects, with its reddish blocks of textured lines set onto a deep blue background.

Again With The Lazy Ties

SPT.

Ladies Night

Bri couldn't wait any longer; he knotted up a purple tie this evening.  His choice was the textured violet silk with creamy Swiss dots in martial array.  Wednesday evenings bored him, but he could do exactly nothing about it.  He was too little to stay home alone, his mother said, and the stern finality in her voice warned him away from any argument.  As she packed up her sewing bag, he stuffed a rucksack full of toys.  At the schoolhouse, the warm yellow light shone through the windows.  Already, a dozen women were bent over the big quilt rack, their sharp needles piercing the stretched fabric, the threads rising and falling with the hum of their voices.  He crawled underneath, lay on his back, and opened his toybag to pull out few biplanes. With the deep purple of the quilt above him serving as the sky, each stitch a star, he flew missions and sorties until the war was over.

Destination

Oh, well. Brian has decided upon the faded indigo tie with the charcoal grey medallions. She walked out of the airport with her backpack and shoulder bag and stood on the median. Cabs and cars and buses crawled by, lingering, then rolling on, full or empty in accordance with their destination. At first she was afraid, the kind of fear that pinned her chest, held her breath hard, made her eyes bulge and pulse. She looked down, closed her eyes, willed herself to inhale slowly. Inside her boots, she curled her toes. When she opened her eyes, she felt calmer. It was chilly. She buttoned up the old denim jacket, the metal buttons dull and worn from overuse, and wound the scarf around her neck a few times. Without waiting for traffic to clear, she stepped off the curb.

It's Like The First Line Of "Bohemian Rhapsody" Keeps Looping In My Head

We are refreshed and ready to Report...and Brian Williams has his own Little Hiatus, bringing the lovely Ann Curry in off the bench to take over The Nightly Desk. Did we get a new cravat upon his return? Ha! It is to laugh. Instead, he dug into the depths and brought forth the baby blue with white and midnight stripes, one that is so oddly contrasting that it appears surreal and somehow animated or painted, much like the landscape of Deadvlei, Namibia.