Spanish Johnny rolled in from the underworld last night. With a beat up buick and broken rhythm, but dressed just like dynamite…

Okay, where were we? We were talking about effecting post-modern perspectives on human rights in a third world paradigm, right?

No, we were talking about jeans.

The simplest, plainest, label-less-est blue jeans. Calvin Klein is no friend of mine. I don’t want nobody’s name on my be-hine the poets said.

Don’t bother to google, Frank, I’ll tell you. The poets were Run DMC. Who, ironically, could end up being called pioneers in fashion label namedropping in rap. They had a hit called My Adidas.

When I say I despise labels I should clarify that the disdain does not go that far. Fashion labels are anathema. But I will accept sports brand names. Except Nike. Never to wear.

So, we have the jeans.

Worn with a plain cotton collar-and-cuffs shirt on top, and comfortable black shoes with rubber soles below. Nothing fancy. I even stopped wearing baseball caps because they had become too fash.

I suspect there is a deep psychological reason for this but at first I put it down to aesthetic philosophy. Saint Inktus believes that a writer should have the courage to dive right into the tempest, be buffeted by the storm, get tossed and churned and turned so that when she finally emerges at the end, she will be bruised and battered, but still will have one heck of a story to tell.

I tend to think that a writer can just sit on a cliff with a clear view and observe the storm, and then, from that disinterested, unprejudiced perspective, write about it.

There is no reason either one of us has to be wrong or right about this, I mention it to mention this: I don’t want to be a part of life. I don’t want to engage it. I don’t want to suffer it. It is at best a nuisance, at worst agony. Okay, it has its redeeming moments but, in general, I would like to just sit quietly in a corner and watch.

If I have my people with me, we can make comments to one another.

That is possibly why I try to dress as plain as I can. And maybe why my tendency to dress as furiously unfashionably as I could petered out at the same time as the beginning of my writing aspirations.

Of maybe it is more Freudian than that. Maybe it is not Freudian at all, and I am misusing the word— is it Freud who said that our entire personalities are shaped by our fears?

At the clothing store where I went to look at jeans—while still in the throes of my New Look obsession. The lady brought out two pairs that would have been perfect. Okay, they had that front fadey thing people like these days, but it wasn’t too much, it was relatively subdued. I thought they were perfect.

But they were the wrong size, so I didn’t buy them.

The lady had other jeans which she suggested might fit better. And I experienced a palpable panic when she brought them out.
They were all streaks and splashes, the fashion fade slashing them across, top to bottom and in all directions. Apparently, to the catalogue of fears that is what I, the man, amount to, you can add, to fear of commitment and fear of success, fear of fashion.

The sight of jeans that fashionable, and the notion of them touching my skin mortified me. It took me whole seconds to recover my composure.

And return to my senses. The obsession with the look was over.

I realize that I exaggerate a lot on this blog. These two posts probably mark the first time I have been straightforward an honest about things, Cheri.

Thing is, I do need to revamp my wardrobe. I know, these bata shoes are way past their retirement date, and I am not as fat as I was when I bought these jeans. Plus, this weather needs a practical jacket.

But then what I really want isn’t hot. It isn’t even cool.

The look I am searching for is more like “kind of okay.”

Which simply means tightening the loose screws on my old look. So I will buy Deg’s jeans (Kagutundakiteteyi, now you know the kind I am looking for. This time when I say nfunira mu sayzi yange I am talking about clothes. Har har!)

And find comfy black shoes with rubber soles and no pointy ends whatsoever.

And go get some shirts: blue, grey, conservative green.

Same old style. I am not really changing anything.

So what was all this hullabaloo for then?

Thicke, have you finished that picture I told you to do? Bring it and we post. Good boy…

Thicke isn’t here. He is still at Nadayada out on loan. When he gets back we shall see about that picture.


The picture.