21 July 2008. Cold and gray, California mackerel boat out of Half Moon Bay. Monterey hull with child-like cabin perched aport, bobbing in the groundswell, green...
Solano morning, three typers in a row. Chess-game amidships, the board gone electric, while at the far end, Mr. Fast, his fingers in an impossible review, too urgent, too quick...
Last night: Los llanos, the empty plains. "El latino--vino solo con su cuerpo, su cruz, su espada..." (Mansilla). Or simply a farmer--a paisano, from somewhere in Calabria. Nicotera, perhaps, or the Golfo di Sant'Eufemia.
But now a single figure also... La llanura... Openness, a new expanse...
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