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〃Once you've seen the signs about the barn； it bees impossible to see the barn。〃
He fell silent once more。 People with cameras left the elevated site； replaced at once by others。
〃We're not here to capture an image； we're here to maintain one。 Every photograph reinforces the aura。 Can you feel it； Jack？ An accumulation of nameless energies。〃
There was an extended silence。 The man in the booth sold postcards and slides。
〃Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender。 We see only what the others see。 The thousands who were here in the past； those who will e in the future。 We've agreed to be part of a collective perception。 This literally colors our vision。 A religious experience in a way； like all tourism。〃
Another silence ensued。
〃They are taking pictures of taking pictures；〃 he said。
He did not speak for a while。 We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons； the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film。
〃What was the barn like before it was photographed？〃 he said。 〃What did it look like； how was it different from other barns； how was it similar to other barns？ We can't answer these questions because we've read the。 signs； seen the people snapping the pictures。 We can't get outside the aura。 We're part of the aura。 We're here； we're now。〃
He seemed immensely pleased by this。
4
When times are bad； people feel pelled to overeat。 Blacksmith is full of obese adults and children； baggy…pantsed； short…legged； waddling。 They struggle to emerge from pact cars； they don sweatsuits and run in families across the landscape； they walk down the street with food in their faces； they eat in stores； cars； parking lots； on bus lines and movie lines； under the stately trees。
Only the elderly seem exempt from the fever of eating。 If they are sometimes absent from their own words and gestures； they are also slim and healthy…looking； the women carefully groomed； the men purposeful and well dressed； selecting shopping carts from the line outside the supermarket。
I crossed the high school lawn and walked to the rear of the building and toward the small open stadium。 Babette was running up the stadium steps。 I sat across the field in the first row of stone seats。 The sky was full of streaking clouds。 When she reached the top of the stadium she stopped and paused； putting her hands to the high parapet and leaning into it to rest diagonally。 Then she turned and walked back down； breasts chugging。 The wind rippled her oversized suit。 She walked with her hands on her hips； fingers spread。 Her face was tilted up； catching the cool air； and she didn't see me。 When she reached the bottom step she turned to face the seats and did some kind of neck stretching exercise。 Then she started running up the steps。
Three times she ascended the steps； walked slowly down。 There was no one around。 She worked hard； hair floating； legs and shoulders working。 Every time she reached the top she leaned into the wall； head down； upper body throbbing。 After the last descent I met her at the edge of the playing field and embraced her； putting my hands inside the sweatband of her gray cotton pants。 A small plane appeared over the trees。 Babette was moist and warm； emitting a creaturely hum。
She runs； she shovels snow； she caulks the tub and sink。 She plays word games with Wilder and reads erotic classics aloud in bed at night。 What do I do？ I twirl the garbage bags and twist…tie them； swim laps in the college pool。 When I go walking； joggers e up soundlessly behind me； appearing at my side； making me jump in idiotic fright。 Babette talks to dogs and cats。 I see colored spots out of the corner of my right eye。 She plans ski trips that we never take； her face bright with excitement。 I walk up the hill to school； noting the whitewashed stones that line the driveways of newer homes。
Who will die first？
This question es up from time to time； like where are the car keys。 It ends a sentence； prolongs a glance between us。 I wonder if the thought itself is part of the nature of physical love； a reverse Darwinism that awards sadness and fear to the survivor。 Or is it some inert element in the air we breathe； a rare thing like neon； with a melting point； an atomic weight？ I held her in my arms on the cinder track。 Kids came running our way； thirty girls in bright shorts； an improbable bobbing mass。 The eager breathing； the overlapping rhythms of their footfalls。 Sometimes I think our love is inexperienced。 The question of dying bees a wise reminder。 It cures us of our innocence of the future。 Simple things are doomed； or is that a superstition？ We watched the girls e round again。 They were strung out now； with faces and particular gaits； almost weightless in their craving； able to land lightly。
The Airport Marriott； the Downtown Travelodge； the Sheraton Inn and Conference Center。
On our way home I said； 〃Bee wants to visit at Christmas。 We can put her in with Steffie。〃
〃Do they know each other？〃
'They met at Disney World。 It'll be all right。〃
〃When were you in Los Angeles？〃
〃You mean Anaheim。〃
〃When were you in Anaheim？〃
〃You mean Orlando。 It's almost three years now。〃
〃Where was I？〃 she said。
My daughter Bee； from my marriage to Tweedy Browner； was just starting seventh grade in a Washington suburb and was having trouble readjusting to life in the States after two years in South Korea。 She took taxis to school； made phone calls to friends in Seoul and Tokyo。 Abroad she'd wanted to eat ketchup sandwiches with Trix sticks。 Now she cooked fierce sizzling meals of scallion bushes and baby shrimp； monopolizing Tweedy's restaurant…quality range。
That night； a Friday； we ordered Chinese food and watched television together； the six of us。 Babette had made it a rule。 She seemed to think that if kids watched television one night a week with parents or stepparents； the effect would be to de…glamorize the medium in their eyes； make it wholesome domestic sport。 Its narcotic undertow and eerie diseased brain…sucking power would be gradually reduced。 I felt vaguely slighted by this reasoning。 The evening in fact was a subtle form of puni