As many beautiful spectacles exist as there are spectators
But it does not follow that every spectacle is beautiful
Consider a soiled diaper, or a rotting onion, or a fascist political rally
Discernment, taste and judgment must be factors in aesthetic evaluation
Each of us, though, must have our favorites, our ideals, those cases in which what is
Fits perfectly with, or even proves to be roughly proximal to, the contents of consciousness
Given these rough parameters, permit me to point out
However presumptuous or peculiar it might seem
In you, reading with incandescently obvious pleasure
Just exactly what I have mournfully ached to witness for years
Knowing how ubiquitous indifference to, or disdain for, autotelic reading of tangible codices has become
Looking (not leering or staring or gaping) at you relishing the decoding of something another encoded
Makes every fiber and corpuscle of my strange self undulate excitedly with hope
Nothing and no one could possibly be as perfumed with perfection as this glimpse of you
Over the inky pilgrims making progress through those paragraphs, your eye entrechats
Producing in the secret cinema of your sentience a pageant of images, ideas and sentiments
Quotidian some will certainly be; some, however, will be regal, ravishing, transcendent
Reading, purely for the pleasure of doing so, reveals you as someone I could writhe in ecstasy before
Strangers we are and were and will undoubtedly remain, but that is not something I regret or resent
To be candid, that seems ideal, for I want to do nothing to change or bother you in any way
Understand, please, that my sole and urgent wish is to say yes and amen to you just as you are
Vanishingly brief and evanescent is this instant, in which you are reading and I am reading you
Which is precisely how the paradox works: particularity, read closely, has universality in it
Xanthate those symbols before you to draw the gold of meaning from them and know that thus
You draw the gold of rapt and respectful admiration from my very marrow
Zest that page with the brown blade of your eye, unleashing its citric semantic spirit, and mine
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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