Worth Its Weight in Appreciation OK, first of all, why haven’t I happened upon The Nonist before. It’s an absolute gem, replete with hidden treasures and a clever — but not too self-aware — writing style. I’ve got some learnin’ to do. And, I must admit, there’s a large part of me that wants to covet this blog like a fine Ghemme nesting in some snoozy little nook of the basement. Then again, I’ve arrived at a few parties anticipating intimate affairs and couldn’t find a place to park. But, since you are a tiny audience, I vouchsafe this secret pearl to you as it was shared with me. Now, on to the meat of the blog: postcards, of the Japanese vintage from the early 20th century. Initially, I plodded down the immediate path of trying to intellectualize the series — figuring out what type of statement they were making since the journalist Miyatake Gaikotsu was behind them. I missed the point, if not the historical period and place. So, I retraced my optical steps. I hadn’t read most of the text first and then gone searching; I scrolled the page and scanned the images. I looked at them for their graceful lines and depth of color palette. Most were pleasing to the eye; others were down-right bold, but always ebullient even in their quietude. Of the entire series, I chose the postcard above for matters of reconciliation with the needs of my right and left hemispheres. The hands have a slight touch. The artist allows me to peek at the sleeve. And that nail clipper haunts me. To be sure, a loved one (?) trimming an extraordinarily long nail is a harmless thing. But why lock the pinkie so low, at the first joint? My experience tells me that those clippers are taking more than a chunk of dead excretion — just enough meat to institute pain and not call attention to the dastardly deed.
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Worth Its Weight in Appreciation

OK, first of all, why haven’t I happened upon The Nonist before. It’s an absolute gem, replete with hidden treasures and a clever — but not too self-aware — writing style. I’ve got some learnin’ to do.

And, I must admit, there’s a large part of me that wants to covet this blog like a fine Ghemme nesting in some snoozy little nook of the basement. Then again, I’ve arrived at a few parties anticipating intimate affairs and couldn’t find a place to park. But, since you are a tiny audience, I vouchsafe this secret pearl to you as it was shared with me.

Now, on to the meat of the blog: postcards, of the Japanese vintage from the early 20th century. Initially, I plodded down the immediate path of trying to intellectualize the series — figuring out what type of statement they were making since the journalist Miyatake Gaikotsu was behind them.

I missed the point, if not the historical period and place. So, I retraced my optical steps. I hadn’t read most of the text first and then gone searching; I scrolled the page and scanned the images. I looked at them for their graceful lines and depth of color palette. Most were pleasing to the eye; others were down-right bold, but always ebullient even in their quietude.

Of the entire series, I chose the postcard above for matters of reconciliation with the needs of my right and left hemispheres. The hands have a slight touch. The artist allows me to peek at the sleeve. And that nail clipper haunts me. To be sure, a loved one (?) trimming an extraordinarily long nail is a harmless thing. But why lock the pinkie so low, at the first joint? My experience tells me that those clippers are taking more than a chunk of dead excretion — just enough meat to institute pain and not call attention to the dastardly deed.

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