Analect 2.629x

31 December 2009. Gray on gray, plus morning chill. Berkeley Monthly, folded in its rain wrap, askew on red cement pathway to house. Two days now...

Tatiana and Sergey, their respective modes. Animation of the storyteller--Nikolai Leskov--hovering at the edge of conciousness. "The most Russian of all Russian writers," as Benjamin might have added. Quality of the telling--an alert kind of patience, the mind on the balls of its feet--relaxed, hands aloft...

"The only way of knowing a person is to love them without hope."

* * *

(Note: the last line is also a quote from Walter Benjamin.)

Analect 2.628x

30 December 2009. Pale light, winter morning. Rain on studio roof last night--skylight sounds.

The local view. Oystershell clouds raking in from the west, on a low slant over sempiternal 7-eleven roof. Just now: young woman in brown leopardskin slippers with darker brown bows sits down alongside at the middle PC. The middle PC--a political tract of some kind. Goes with her half-finger gloves--the black over-the-wrist variety, reaching up to brush aside sleepy brown hair.

Li Ching at work just behind--wheel-bag, several pockets unzipped, his mild green nylon jacket (with unexpected Harley-Davidson emblems front and back) draped over handle.

Reaching for thumbdrive, her keys in hand, red heels...

Ending Poverty in America...

Analect 2.227x

29 December 2009. Dawn light through white curtains...

Neighbors' cars nose to nose on quiet street--insistent voice of starter motor, engine engaging in bloom of white exhaust...

Or, the Bud Light delivery truck, backed tight against 7-eleven facade. Driver buried in cab, hovering over forms propped on wheel...

A restless morning...young mother in Chamonix baseball cap, pony tail and dark green sweater, waiting for file to download as tiny blond Lita and her older brother explore the interstices of neighborning machines... On to water cooler possibilities across the room...

Greg, in patient voice, "Let's go see mommy..."

Analect 2.626x

28 December 2009. Morning chill, layers of white down, hood...

An evening with Sergey, invigorated and at his best, songs from Glinka, Shubert, Mozart, Brahms--a fragment of Handel on Jack's worthy upright, Sergey's frock-coat form leaning deeply into each note. Image of a bird--ptitsa--Nestor Vasil'yevich Kukol'nik--do I have this right?--a bird on the wing, Sergey in his perfect moment of theater, just before beginning, reaching up with an open hand...

Then after, gathered at two skewed tables, champagne, a toast, platters of Klara's Armenian spinach pie, beet salad vinegret (svyokla), in simple bowl, from Tatyana's mother, who speaks with Roma in her beautifully clear Silver-age diction--studies of language, history, philosophy, science--borders shifting with each decade, with each breath...

Physics, taking flight...

* * *

Sergey Zadvorny, the noted Russian-born basso cantante

Analect 2.625x

22 December 2009. Cold, brrrrr, winter sun. Steam rising from the pool...

King again, pine trees against eastern sky, their companion silhouettes. Shivering on deck while Yassir surveys the lanes. Woman with dark form, vigorous stroke. The tattooed girl from El Cerrito--her thin legs embroidered with Prussian blue flowers. Lin, his street-wise face bundled in life-guard red. Water sweet, a relief from the cold air...

A trailer frame nestled in the tees--random image from the Paraná. It's summer there, along the river's edge. Awning of red and white, metal...a combinatory aesthetic--the ore of an urban world...

Analect 2.624x

21 December 2009. Rainy morning, King Pool. Gray skies with flurries of wet. Low-rider changing rooms, dank and dim, with the same worn green poly-mesh clothes bags hanging from their skewed wires. Empty benches, puddled floor, a gym bag or two, someone's shoes tucked underneath, and the winding hallway to the deck, with snatches of Moroccan sounds en route--and there, the regulars. Yassir, for one, his sculpted beard now a little gray, directing traffic as of old. "Here, you swim in this lane, pointing. Two will be out soon..." Memories of that commanding diction--and the morning, late summer, nine years ago, with word of two buildings in flame. Same room, radio voices--Larry Bensky, coughing in an unexpected way...

I look into his face--the same warm smile, regaining time. "The same good eyes..."

Analect 2.623x

18 December 2009. Warm winter sun, unseasonable delight. Santa hats, t-shirts and smiles...

Weather for the birds, as one can see. A collation of little ones--house sparrow and finch, with the obligatory pidgeon. Cooing strut--city gait. Tiny violin case with miniature Chicago-style submachine gun (Al Capon--a terrible fate--a terrible pun)--while here, simply the partially puffed chest of an everyday egotist. Not so, research tells us--all behavior has a purpose, ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, at a very swift clip--round the last turn now, they're neck in neck--it's Fritz by a nose...

Die welträtsel, some would say...

Analect2 2.622x

16 December 2009. Two tigers loose in the house, one curled on a pillow, the other on freshly washed pile of blankets and towels. Winter poses, while outside, the steady rain, a nondescript mist of gray, home to house finch and mouse...

Signs of life along the street--wet camphor leaves, blue-gray light...airbrakes of recycling truck, careening around corner. Two faces behind blurry glass...

Fifth night--a home to all...

Analect 2.621x

15 December 2009. Even gray sky--single disk of gaberdine cloud with illumined edges, high over dark 7-eleven roof, broken arc of white just alongside. Glowing winter sun...

Full stop, then a beginning. As with a sentence--each linked set of words. A party tray--Harry and David, those Oregon gents with their apples and cheeses and pears, sent from afar in heavy boxes, nestled in excelsior. Channukah lights, fourth night...

A menorah of plain wood--from the garage in Oceanside, 2x4 with line of eight roofing nails. One for the shammus candle, too--tapped in a little higher...

The rock dove...

Analect 2.620x

4 December 2009. Sunny winter's morning, red-gold leaves mushed in the rain gutters, faces with smiles...

Zampanò e'arrivato...somewhere around 1954, rolling into town on that ancient motorcycle contraption. A touring show--Gelsomina's trumpet-plaint--and her unforgettable upturned eyes, all innocence and doubt...

Chains around his chest, a blanket for a cape, fiece look but strangely delicate shoulders, Anthony Quinn strides out before the crowd. Townsfolk--riffraff and loungers, children, too--until the sound of a car, just off camera, begins to build, gaining speed, and at the moment it passes--paaaaam--the links are parted...

La Strada...