Tumbling On

And lonely as it is that loneliness 

Will be more lonely ere it will be less--

A blanker whiteness of benighted snow

With no expression, nothing to express

(from "Desert Places" by Robert Frost)

The days tumble onward whether I pay attention to them or not.  They are gone.  Something conspires to keep me from them, I think, some vile force or forces with "insidious intent."  Of the nights, though, I am often too aware.  I isolate myself purposefully.  I am tired.  What was that line from "After Apple Picking"?  Tired of the harvest I myself had so something desired?  I could look it up, I guess.  "Reaped their sowing, went their came/ sun, moon, stars, rain."  Cummings.  Those hideous poets point their fingers now, as do the gurus and the sages.  Maybe I was misreading?  But how can we not?  To read is to misread, I think.  And to write is to leave a recording of mistakes.  A picture, however. . . .

Tonight the boyfriend of one of the women I photographed this year fights in the finals of the UFC Ultimate Fighter competition on television.  He will leave his mark, so to speak.  Not reading.  Not writing.  It is an art of the martial kind.  It is really quite something.