The photographs of N.P. Thompson


no one watching

My (so it seemed then) Antonioni-esque view of an unpopulated tennis court somewhere in the Deep South on a long-ago, forgotten summer day.


the movies

crepe myrtle at cathedral entrance

lace and shadow

the neighborhood

Lamar Penthouse

just we two



to Hell with Brian Kemp

Fuck “Governor” Brian Kemp, or Brine Kemp, as genteel Georgia trash no doubt mispronounce his holy name.

Fuck all Republicans, for that matter.


getting to it

Bergdorf solo

See also:

Fuel in blue

See also:

presents every day: HB 4 (or 5)

presents every day: HB 3

presents every day: HB 2

presents every day: HB 1

the last row

trees and mirrors

…the weary world rejoices…

hello, old friend

Reed Hall in winter

Mary Brown’s china

“…sometimes the law does not do what it should, and something being legal does not make it right.” — Stacey Abrams

The late Mary Brown was a close relative whom I scarcely knew: my grandfather’s sister. A country girl who married into money, she was a Southern grande dame, as extravagant as she was aloof.

She died from cancer (the treatments, not the disease) when I was in my early teens. Despite geographical proximity, I only saw Mary a couple of times in the single digits of my youth, and unlike other doting aunts and vying uncles, eager to be endearing, who courted me with candy bars and bakery treats, she never zeroed in on my presence. (Perhaps she disapproved of my mother’s status as a divorced woman, although Mrs. Brown had, seemingly, no qualms about her only daughter being married off to an eminently presentable gangster. That’s how things were in the Deep South back then.)

2 or 3 things I remember about her: Read the rest of this page »