Interlude prolonged

The previous posting dates

from Monday, the 5th, and

the one which follows dates

from Tuesday, the 6th. To 
my satisfaction they give an
authentically lovely effect,
of a world where they belong
together. Theirs are search-
ing, candid qualities, not per-
taining to red mug, blue linen 
in the native sense but to its 
explorations since 2010.


I resorted to my telephone on 

the 8th, to reserve the entries

in draft, when I learned I would 
be away from this page for sev-

eral more days than expected. In
reposting them now in their or-
iginal sequence, I position that
absence in the past, but still
prematurely. 

Readers have therefore seen these
postings but not this interlinea-
tion. I lately came to my house and
paged the lead surgeon from my busy
cardiovascular intervention, which
had taken me by surprise and not a
few infusions of greatly disorient-
ing medications, to tell him that
although there were some bleeding 
to report, I was resting quietly on
my back, reading funny stories from
The New Yorker. He told me this was
the perfect thing to do, and that I
was plainly on the right path. I 
didn't think it necessary to say, 
these were pretty severe satires
from Dorothy Parker. I'll smile, but I like it to be for a good cause. :)

I wish people who come to this page for delight to feel the per-sistence of miracles behind it. I just come to say, I know ours is a beautiful study, that no refine-ment of the native gift for it is ill-pursued; and that if we happen to cite Clément Chabernaud on the cable-knit turtleneck, it is not for lack of miraculous precedent. Whose miracle is this, anyway, we ask each other, as uncertain as March: the ultimate grace note of the sweetest heart ever to engage in cinema, or the inexhaustible autonomy of delight? How does all of this go on, with so little general uproar of cognition?  

In the hospital, a friend brought me the inconceivably worst piece of literature for this proposition, yet I doubt that I'd ever have found its perfect magnificence in any other setting - Jack Kerouac's delirium tremens saga, Big Sur. Against a ghastly authenticity in remembrance there lay that paradox of an artist giving life and loyalty to his narrative of excruci-ating helplessness, which allows us to regard Guernica as a brilliant Stubbs.
At the same time, there were wonderfully kind notes from friends I had asked for permission to say I was afraid. This is what my brother asked of me one night. I hope I was so generous.