Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
In Praise of Guys Without Shirts
A friend of mine has a chalkboard: Things to Be Thankful For.
Yesterday, going past, I took up the chalk and wrote:
Guys Without Shirts.
It's the kind of weather that they named the Summerland for, and finally, after a long winter of visual deprivation, the shirts are coming off.
Thank Goddess.
Don't get me wrong: I appreciate rippling pecs and box-grater abs as much as the next (gay) guy.
But they're not required. Young or old, rounded or taut: it's all beauty to me, and yes, I always look. As the sage once said: The contemplation of beauty is its own reward.
When peonies bloom and shirts are shed, it means that Summer, our beautiful, poignant Summer, is come: burgeoning, urgent, and always O so brief.
And so with poet Dan Pagis I see, and I say:
May I always have eyes,
eyes to see
the beauty of the world.
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Hear! hear!