14 May 2008. Pearl sky eucalyptus, yellow mist over morning hills, run of trees along ridgetop. Home. Larry, unfortunately--endless facts and postulations, knowledge of the physical way in which things work. Gears and insertions. Reach for song.
Federico García Lorca--leaps and premonitions. Cante del pueblo. What would he have called them? Orange groves and mint. Albahaca--basil. Alberca--a moorish pool. "It is a song without landscape, withdrawn into itself and terrible in the dark. Deep song (cante jondo) shoots its arrows of gold right into our heart. In the dark it is a terrifying blue archer whose quiver is never empty."
Subí a la muralla.
Me respondió el viento:
¿para qué tantos suspiritos
si ya no hay remedio?
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