I feel like taking a stroll through beauty this morning.  The word has gotten so  tarnished by sexual overtones that the topic has dropped out of serious consideration. Maybe I’m funny (yes, I know I am), but I can go back through–and enjoy, and relax, to memories of what I think of as beauty.  Maybe I’m just talking about memories that filled me up, like experiences of some beauty does.  I remember a dress in the ninth grade. It was of pin corduroy, and was something that might be called magenta and had wrap around buttons down to the waist with a little neck that poked up.  Whatever happened to soft pin corduroy, anyway?

Another memory is the figure of a Chinese lady with a parasol, one foot in the air as observed through a store window.  Perfect! If I hadn’t been poor I would have possessed it.

How can…