Beauty is yesterday and my memory of it. Beauty is a November day so brilliantly blue that even the roots of winter wither into forgetfulness.
When given the choice between inner beauty and mere surface beauty, on a great many occasions I’ve opted to wade, frolic and generally amuse myself in the decidedly shallow end of the pool.
I am gently coaxing you to open your eyes and take a look around. There is enough detail and texture and variegation where you are, right there, even if you never leave the room.
Long afternoons in the Royal Theatre on Eighth Street in Meridian, Mississippi, sitting in the dark watching bright images on the screen with the loud blare of sound in my ears was the only time I would allow myself to cry.
"William," she began as she arranged herself in the big emerald arm chair, "you need to pick our Pushcart nominations. Right now!"
I’m reassured that beauty can be found in almost everything, depending on our focus, even if what we are looking at is the Buddhist affirmation of a lotus flower blooming out of stinky mud.