Is it wrong to love a thing? To feel titillation at the prospect of possession, and the absolute thrill of intensity at receiving a mere object?
If so, call me damned *s
Shoes are captivating, naturally. A pair of black leather peep-toe pumps with six-inch heels and sinfully red soles garnered my instant devotion, as a birthday gift to myself.
And this girl does enjoy her cosmetics. My 14-year-old daughter gave me another wonderful kit from Bare Escentuals, replete with an adorable card, and that high-contrast Sephora gift box. Yum.
For a photographer, though, nothing beats the gift of greater clarity in vision. And the Nikon D40 SLRs are just so very much the absolute zenith of desire.
Upon consideration of the matter, I offer the following poem by Molly Peacock. If you know me at all, you're already inundated with my love of poetry *s
To wit . . .
I love desire, the state of want and thought
of how to get; building a kingdom in a soul
requires desire. I love the things I've sought—
you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll
from my billfold—and love what I want: clothes,
houses, redemption. Can a new mauve suit
equal God? Oh no, desire is ranked. To lose
a loved pen is not like losing faith. Acute
desire for nut gateau is driven out by death,
but the cake on its plate has meaning,
even when love is endangered and nothing matters.
For my mother, health; for my sister, bereft,
wholeness. But why is desire suffering?
Because want leaves a world in tatters?
How else but in tatters should a world be?
A columned porch set high above a lake.
Here, take my money. A loved face in agony,
the spirit gone. Here, use my rags of love.
--Molly Peacock, "Why I Am Not a Buddhist"
So I have the camera. And thus I am deeply pleased.
Won't you look better through my lens, now? And you? Ah, and you . . .
Desire, yes. In balance.
~Emmanuela
