Friday, September 9, 2011

Warm arm, cool arm

Going to the beach this weekend,
I pack the muse's gauze, myself,
its appetite for inscription un-
ambiguous to me; irresistible
I have worn colours or stripes, 
tattersalls and checks to assure 
others, I have a change of shirt.
That is the plain meaning of such

I rebel against wearing others.
I wonder, that it ever seemed a
courtesy to manipulate one's in-
carnation with petty statements.
My present to my bride, long ago,
was an Ansel Adams zone system
portrait of myself in the dunes
at San Gregorio beach in Calif-
ornia, barefoot in baggy khakis
and a white shirt. The appetite
of white reciprocates that of
life, does it not, for true in-
scription, spontaneous and un-
bent. As a frame, nothing else - 
reflective sterling silver, 
almost excepted - so invites re-
gard, perception, considera-
tion, remembrance. Adoption.

Our infamous hottie in the white
T has lately been reconstructing
this conception of the suspend-
ed white field, as a japonesque
noren he presents as a guest-
book. It calls to me the vision,
probably in the back of everyone's 
mind, of the high and canopied 4-
poster in St Lucia, of sumptuous 
white linens, as a field for in-
finite erotic elaboration.

The shirt of ampleness and ad-
justable openness in white is
evidently a blessing of fate,
not an invention: for phenomenal 
sensitivity to light, and more so 
to air, quality of permeability 
reserved for nothing less than this 
provenance, availing infusion, in-
halation, exhilaration, flight.

It hasn't a lesser side. Warm 
arm, cool arm: where else would
one leap, to be the plainest word?


  1. Went to the beach ? How good of you and...
    Yes to white !

  2. I had the very strongest temptation to reproduce your "Elisabetta" T for this, but I thought to steel myself in lieu of stealing again so soon from you. I hope you could feel I was thinking of you all through this, Ivan. :)