And legs--my own, so to speak. But I remember learning once that in Yiddish you don't say my leg but rather the leg--the personal pronoun being reserved for things truly close--my wife, my family, and the like. A leg--well, as Chaung Tzu once noted, who truly needs one?
But the my business was an ideological position. A coercive use of the concept of closeness--for in fact these things aren't automatic--they need to be felt. So that what's close is what we make close. Bring close. Or perhaps find...
As in the photo, which begs to differ as well, for even when seated--yes, that's me. Or at least it feels like me--this being mysterious, since I'm all covered up with worn black twill--two sewn smokestacks for the appendages--here at my office desk, the metal handle I've pulled out--well, how many times? How would you calculate that? An average of once a day? Three times a week? Every other month? Once in five years...?
And what's most important, in any case, are the tones. The tones and colors--muted though they be--and the surrounding dark. One foot, sandal shod, extended, almost a blur...
.
