18 January 2011. Sun, warm morning...
No los conozco. That's how it is, strange tilt of a hat, hem of a dress. Familiar, yet impossibly different. Imposiblement distintos... Reachable in language--the glide of each word. "You sound like an Italian," observation on the part of Marcos. As opposed to a resident of Oaxaca? Well, yes--an Italian. Italiano. That immigrant lilt, transferred slowly, by ship, to the horizon of the River Plate, Río La Plata. Color of lion--color de león--Lugones' phrase. Everyone quotes him--and rightly so...
A gift, bound in rough calfskin--small volume of Martín Fierro. This from mis compañeros in the Colegio Nacional. Quinto 3ra, the year 1962. Their names, too, signed one by one. Dip and flourish--muy argentino...
Time...
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