Dale

Dale is a soft, noodling, romantic sop who has a brain that can never be fully indexed, since it’s constantly in progress. He must own a hundred pairs of suspenders, all wonderful, which hide nicely under his chamois shirts. All soft.

Dale is drawn magnetically to All Things in Skirts, especially the wounded and the wild ones, while still tautly held by a thread to his best friend, Martha, who is firmly planted on Planet Earth. Martha is Dale’s foundation and he is her Knight in Rusty Armor. They are both Christmas lights on the planet–all colour and joy, though sometimes tangled.

Dale is both Startlingly Advanced and Amazingly Naive, which explains why The Things in Skirts are magnetically attracted back in his direction. He comes through. He stays. His hands are delicately pointing in all the right directions. He never takes credit but he always takes responsibility, and sometimes takes delight.

I think it is possible that he actually lives in another century, while miraculously inhabiting hands that move a pen in this one. We have all taken note. He has drawn more pictures on napkins than any artist of this century. There is reported to be a man who collects them.

Comments

[susurra]

sweet, but you hit the problem (inadvertantly) right on.
A sunflower doesn't feel at all does it?
It might feel yellow if it felt, but it doesn't feel.

[dale]

More than I know :-)

[dale]

Well, that's not much of a feat. Like making a sunflower feel yellow.

[susurra]

You forgot the wickedly mischevious chuckle, but otherwise you have him precisely described. I especially like the skirts part, although in all honesty, he seems to fall for gals in pants too. He's never seen me in skirt, but he still manages to make me feel totally sexy.