7 August 2007. Truck door swings open, somber morning light. The claims of philosophy and the claims of love. One or the other...like a long metal railing, bow to stern, on the Great White Steamer... Calm of San Pedro harbor, early morning, darkened wharfs and gray waters, all the way to Avalon. Last night: some Tío Pepe, one glass after another. "I always wanted to be a gypsy," she explained--another kind of darkness--unpredictable, maybe, or at the very least, unknown. Wild in part, and from a distant source. Migrant trails out of Punjab, turbans and hidden knives, sharp blue eyes take in every horizon--a horseman, defender of the realm...Mughul...
"If I have a daughter, perhaps she will sing..."
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