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w a r m r e g a r d s, m r. k i e r k e g a a r d
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H E R M A N B E A V E R S
Tattooed women negotiate the sand, dragging beach
chairs to confront the sun. They don’t squint
against the glare. They don’t believe the sun
requires anything resembling an adjective: its not
angry, hostile, unrelenting, threatening,
indifferent, punishing, or
anorexic. These are woman that deal in plain
facts, speech as flat as a hand waiting for money.
The sun always gives up what it promises. There's
something about the nature of stars. By the time
light reaches us, its history. So, you see, these
women, with their tattooes that say "That’s the
Shit" or "Try me!", that portray a man and a woman
coiled together like the symbols for yin and yang,
they know that what's providing the color is a
force residing in the past tense. See, they know
the difference between fusion and radiation: the
former is a process, the latter is the thing in
motion. Ok, so it’s not scientific. But isn't
there something to be said for the way these women
chase the sun till it disappears behind the hotel?
Then, they gather up their things, throw their
beach towels over their shoulder, slip back into
their high heels, pick up the Kierkegaard they've
been reading and make their way across the cooling
sand. And if it looks like they’re smirking or
rolling their eyes at men like me, with our sagging
bellies, our crusted feet, the regret stiffening
our bones, it is as fleeting as the attention paid
us by the stars, a matter of times gone by, a
simple trick of the light.
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