One has to look, I suppose. Especially after the fact, face-to-face.

The way one is forced to look out windows—finding oneself—however

far removed (as from a hospital bed or room aboard a luxury liner)—at

one with nature—real or, like the window, man-made, art. Because

looking out is itself a form of therapy—the way laughing is a form of

therapy—because it allows one to live out of body, live outside one-

self, if only for a moment. But “interesting”? Face? What of those

“In the heart of this silence won from Paris, birds sing.—Balzac

hung from the branches of trees outside El Salvador? Would would-be

revolutionaries have found them “interesting”? Helen’s was said to have

launched a thousand ships. But was hers “interesting”? Does cutting off

its nose, or reducing the size of its nose, make it more “interesting”?

In a morbid kind of way? Does smashing an egg on it make it more

“interesting”? Falling flat, like a cartoon character, on it? How about

saving it like sliced cucumbers aged to pickle? Losing it—like one’s

memory? Being two of—as in Batman or intentional deceit? Blue faces

on Blue Men or football fans? Whiter-than-white white women in Japan,

trained, often from youth, to please men? No actors in Japan? The yellow

faces of Paris Balzac condemned? Blank faces? Faces in a crowd—like

“petals on a black bough”? Faces wearing masks for Mardi Gras, Halloween

Greek theater? Faces wearing masks to hide deformed faces—acid or

fireburned, birth-deformed? Faces wearing lines like maps. Faces freckle

like birds’ eggs and faces not freckled? Let’s face it. Like snowflakes

and fingerprints, no two are alike. If life is short, Emily Dickinson’s

face is long. And surely, that is the long and short of it, “interesting”.