#25

I forgot to spend the afternoon forgetting. Gamflin, as the Scottish say. While the shirtless boys (too young to distract me) kicked a ball in circular progression in the center of the Square. By the empty fountain. And the lofty stone urn. I straddled a bench in the three o'clock sun, read of Arbeiter and Augenblick. The students and their Wissenschaft, a limpid translation for desire.

In my own mind, at the site of home, there is a picture-perfect picture of l'amour. And so I have always fallen - fallen with and fallen for - those who carry cameras by their hearts. Those keepers of revelation, the moment caught by fingers focused forward. No - not forward, but here, now, in the now that is passing, surpassed, at once, and gone. These photographers, holy men, whose work outlasts its moment. I follow in their shadows, never tempered by a pose, and snap away at them, the prophets, those, and miss their prophesy-ing.

And I am ever exposed. A heretic, un-seer of the divine Image.