Interlude

I shall be without Whit for a few

days and this page, without me. I

leave a light in the window for 

Tuesday in a posting queue - 

but with reluctance. I would rath-

er avoid commanding attention in 

absentia. Still, everyone has a

thing he wouldn't have wanted not
to have said, in case he were to
keep walking, instead.


With this entry, 'though, an ar-
gument. We must not relegate re-
gard for this face to its gender;
and yet we do. I have an unthink-
ably beautiful new doctor, whose
voice and face and manner give me
acceptance as much as confidence,
in what she says. The condescen-
sion in ladies to this quality of
theirs is insufferable, the dis-
placement of the subject taking
the turn, chronically, of meas-
ured praises for conduct rather
than for being. And too bad, for
the being of this face is a pre-
cipitation of bliss beyond any
divide of desire or edict of
taste. It isn't relevant, how 
well she wears it; that specu-
lation insults the suspension, 
not of disbelief, but of be-
lief configured in the blind-
ness of infancy. Possibly, I
remark only on a quality in
boys.

With this argument, 'though, a
commendation. In this past week
my reading has given me two as-
sociations of photography and
poetry which touch, in an exem-
plary way, on our natural re-
sponse to naturalism in either 
form. Readers of this page will
be glad to notice these blog en-
tries, resisting comparing one
with the other, where the photo
takes precedence in one and the
poem in the other. Possibly, in
either, I remark only on a qual-
ity in age.


No, we don't, do we, dine in
restaurants.

Photograph Peter Lindbergh


Photograph Nestor Almendros