tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363702652024-03-12T18:11:29.247-07:00AnalectsThe analects--a gathering of images and ideas, initially inspired by the writings of confucius, and the dailyness of the poems of the t'ang dynasty, made present, perhaps, todayAnthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.comBlogger856125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-20058676831168961012011-04-03T12:09:00.001-07:002011-04-03T20:41:12.117-07:00For recent drawings, please see the <span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://anthonydubovsky12.blogspot.com/">Meta-lects</a></span>Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-27574977624211784532011-03-14T18:08:00.005-07:002011-03-24T11:51:22.565-07:00Analect 2.851x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYcYj77_OyrB5DMnrnQEQs2mi6mrghkyUqsJFiFZZKTPx2UTkG6qdwG9fICZNHp_ZFtVUBPXz4hLJ_6HoyKWdzuC7w9gYEYRVgLN2Ey7phtvR8V7Cqn1tvOh9pXwwQK_V06un/s1600/M48x.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYcYj77_OyrB5DMnrnQEQs2mi6mrghkyUqsJFiFZZKTPx2UTkG6qdwG9fICZNHp_ZFtVUBPXz4hLJ_6HoyKWdzuC7w9gYEYRVgLN2Ey7phtvR8V7Cqn1tvOh9pXwwQK_V06un/s400/M48x.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582209984349243842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />9 March 2011. Pato argentino. We'll have to look into the source of this one--pato colorado, maybe, with its velvety reddish gray crown, blending into white below, on a marsh that Hudson himself might have known. Vicinity of Chascomus, southeast of La Plata by a few miles, but "pura pampa..." Rereading his stories, that truthful edge, sometimes dark--an acknowledgment of something real...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;"> M48</span></div>Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-5704335069191652602011-03-14T18:08:00.003-07:002011-03-22T16:46:34.879-07:00Analect 2.850x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5KWah5iHoeO1bPjEzr1TQfy9gkzgEKsCnwf9gGQGBgcQR_u6Hzwdy1CYSKLYPelb2Y2k6M9CFHr4SGc8LfDv3ZTl9BPVKvXQLLB-olaiZCMersUGb9Q9ChHvrevjzti3fh-IW/s1600/M47x+%2528Pato+Picazo%2529.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5KWah5iHoeO1bPjEzr1TQfy9gkzgEKsCnwf9gGQGBgcQR_u6Hzwdy1CYSKLYPelb2Y2k6M9CFHr4SGc8LfDv3ZTl9BPVKvXQLLB-olaiZCMersUGb9Q9ChHvrevjzti3fh-IW/s400/M47x+%2528Pato+Picazo%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581883120511479778" border="0" /></a><br /><br />8 March 2011. Gray morning, rain on car...<br /><br />Situationist Manifesto. Ken Knabb's face, reappearing, after 30 years. A book on Rexroth, the politics of poems. "Relevance..."<br /><br />As with the ducks of El Tigre. Pato Picazo, deep red eye embedded in velvety black. Invisible waters, brown and gold-green, slow-moving, from the Iguazu.<br /><br />The Rosy-billed Pochard...<br /><br /> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;">M47</span></div>Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-34803199571832218042011-02-09T15:42:00.000-08:002011-03-22T16:21:06.226-07:00To continue with recent Analects, for the present you'll need to visit my <a href="http://anthonydubovsky12.blogspot.com/">Meta-lects</a> siteAnthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-17357840753864717582011-02-03T13:22:00.000-08:002011-03-22T16:28:45.574-07:00Analect 2.845x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISp3U0IKnfkKKkQBfBOy2_w7ZtJ_HsMdbMVD7ZfieIxMEo3rZIZ-GqvClSjQpH8MeLOBHew2-qUwXmyfXjL6ItpxgDp09EhMWi6JhwhZtjEjuKBM5xR3ezy-oApX0Pm5QAYXb/s1600/Analect2.845x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISp3U0IKnfkKKkQBfBOy2_w7ZtJ_HsMdbMVD7ZfieIxMEo3rZIZ-GqvClSjQpH8MeLOBHew2-qUwXmyfXjL6ItpxgDp09EhMWi6JhwhZtjEjuKBM5xR3ezy-oApX0Pm5QAYXb/s400/Analect2.845x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569576859896356178" /></a><br /><br />3 February 2011. Sun.<br /><br />Mexican couple in the 7-eleven, find myself pondering whether they're man and wife or mother and son. Back of the woman's hands--quite beautiful--often this way when there's a certain sense of age. On his cheek--a narrow line of beard, just a hint, a kind of memory, a noble past, or a way of being, sense of dignity revealed... Outside, pulled up broadly on the asphalt lot--bulbous white late-model truck with gardener's inscription, black metal-strut trailer just behind...<br /><br />Nebraska, late-winter. Lincoln, a college town on the prairie, 1977. The breakfast place with a German name (Kuhl's?), local folks gathered, bib-overalls, coffee mugs, eyeing the stranger...<br /><br />Closer to home--Nibbs, on San Pablo. Alex and his wife, their energetic Korean manner, back counter with aging Beatles shots, a flock of dollar bills folded into origami birds...<br /><br />Gemütlich smiles...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-4352371567850051772011-02-01T13:43:00.000-08:002011-02-01T17:38:10.020-08:00Analect 2.843x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt68l0p_nKW0sw4VEJKkX0tAA4GWCuB3UF4YAyJ-onjbx55kANJvG_LboUihC50voJioMZ3pKdWTzYduS16l0zGsVEjOLf_eorUi4CiRLKuqIuqAyHGf3e99PuiZOx1xAi_gE8/s1600/Analect2.843x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt68l0p_nKW0sw4VEJKkX0tAA4GWCuB3UF4YAyJ-onjbx55kANJvG_LboUihC50voJioMZ3pKdWTzYduS16l0zGsVEjOLf_eorUi4CiRLKuqIuqAyHGf3e99PuiZOx1xAi_gE8/s400/Analect2.843x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568840101441993682" /></a><br /><br />1 February 2011. Fog at dawn, blurred trees, quiet.<br /><br />Sun breaking through, mid-morning now. Seeing Po Chü-i's great poem, on a borrow'd screen, code unknown--his noble seven-character lines garbled into smallish black boxes, on the diagonal--each containing a question mark...a few letters--random?--scattered in between. But nothing is random, the boxes are not really black, the question is always an answer...and we are everywhere the goose, and the freer. <br /><br />At one moment, wings lighter now, flight...<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />(Po Chü-I, <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=cMY-UIJyCvgC&pg=PA53&lpg=PA53&dq=hinton+po+chu-i+migrant+goose&source=bl&ots=RDLKLhg-2W&sig=ew8JhuX_b8s7gmUVA9JyjsVZCZg&hl=en&ei=YbNITdWWKI-asAOk14XCCg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CBMQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q&f=false">Setting a Migrant Goose Free</a></span>, David Hinton translation)Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-69022902306417240092011-01-31T14:40:00.000-08:002011-01-31T14:44:35.723-08:00Analect 2.842x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HdKBP6dN5wbPX4nrmofZxZZzcOwDbPAFwfWX8c0e4Yy8hELAYDqHfRE4hSzbwHzkb_hPiLzFA1rKUHoFhBGz04yw-ENkGHBjepkM5zxElDy60AGV9S28LYHg7YT7L9Epv06K/s1600/Analect2.842x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HdKBP6dN5wbPX4nrmofZxZZzcOwDbPAFwfWX8c0e4Yy8hELAYDqHfRE4hSzbwHzkb_hPiLzFA1rKUHoFhBGz04yw-ENkGHBjepkM5zxElDy60AGV9S28LYHg7YT7L9Epv06K/s400/Analect2.842x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568483737604556594" /></a><br /><br />31 January 2011. <span style="font-style:italic;">"Ojos limpios como el chingolo..." </span>Eyes as clear as those of a sparrow. A line from a song by José Larralde, <span style="font-style:italic;">La Noche del Peludero...</span><br /><br />The <span style="font-style:italic;">chingolo</span>--a small bird, <span style="font-style:italic;">zonotrichia capensis--capensis </span>originally referring to an African origin, on the Cape of Good Hope--which appears to have been a mistranscription of Cayena, the capital of French Guyana, the p replacing the y...and a birthplace in the Americas...<br /><br />The head of the <span style="font-style:italic;">chingolo</span> is gray, with prominent black stripe, and a smaller bonnet of gray. The throat is white, with a collar <span style="font-style:italic;">"de color canela..."</span> Cinnamon. The back, brownish, with patches of black. The chest is brown, <span style="font-style:italic;">"con reflejos de pardo..."</span> "A combination of colors and shapes that make it a very pleasing creature..."<br /><br />The local names for the <span style="font-style:italic;">chingolo</span> vary from province to province. <span style="font-style:italic;">Ycancho</span> in the north of Argentina; <span style="font-style:italic;">cachilo</span> in the east. <span style="font-style:italic;">Chuschiú</span> in Córdoba. <span style="font-style:italic;">Vichi </span>in Tucumán. <span style="font-style:italic;">Marumbé</span> in the language of the Guaraní. <span style="font-style:italic;">Kiken</span> in Tehuelche. And in Mapuche, <span style="font-style:italic;">chincol.</span>..<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />A man, singing, in the evening, Volga, <span style="font-style:italic;">vidalitá.</span>..Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-14381632889241802742011-01-28T12:11:00.001-08:002011-01-31T14:40:34.665-08:00Analect 2.841x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffT6BrjirDZgAXsQM1-bQOrJ0091BDEOJxakRVfIlM5g4atQRnKjFpmxKGOT_jBC4xZbvxkxqjA1XpHP-jBg2ooAxm6qtcz8KV5D-R9dFjJ_bZbTAh4j4MoekF49w7qlM4zcM/s1600/Analect2.841x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffT6BrjirDZgAXsQM1-bQOrJ0091BDEOJxakRVfIlM5g4atQRnKjFpmxKGOT_jBC4xZbvxkxqjA1XpHP-jBg2ooAxm6qtcz8KV5D-R9dFjJ_bZbTAh4j4MoekF49w7qlM4zcM/s400/Analect2.841x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567331906324377026" /></a><br /><br />28 January 2011. Gray again, cold to the bone...<br /><br />Gathered around small table, warm room...yerba mate, Cruz de Malta, a golden-brown gourd with silver rim, large in size, filled with dusky herb. Bombilla--bright metal--set in along the side, water near boiling. Fogón, a camp fire on the pampa--the word itself indigenous in origen, from the language of the Indians of the Andes...Quechua, meaning "llanura"--an open plain. More "empty" really--an expanse of land where the sun sets over a long horizon. "...ve morir el sol allá, detras de los juncos..." You see it die, there, beyond the reeds... <br /><br />Lagunas y sauzales...<br /><br />Thoughts of Chuck, and the sea...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-5762346344163568402011-01-27T13:25:00.001-08:002011-01-27T13:32:06.191-08:00Analect 2.840x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4o0wfxGIKqMW0EQcgKj02ceDVkZRL8MDhP66DLrHgE37DMa-0IIwUloIVJXAp-vxcnk_CQcoBjnl4_VXuEFfI0XjdMkhzThk2lcAk9VdquO_nqj3A3RNlaj4Pz2wdDPh3IdOT/s1600/Analect2.840x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4o0wfxGIKqMW0EQcgKj02ceDVkZRL8MDhP66DLrHgE37DMa-0IIwUloIVJXAp-vxcnk_CQcoBjnl4_VXuEFfI0XjdMkhzThk2lcAk9VdquO_nqj3A3RNlaj4Pz2wdDPh3IdOT/s400/Analect2.840x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566981346389400290" /></a><br /><br />27 January 2011. January sun...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">El gaucho pintor.</span> Note the brushes tucked in behind. <span style="font-style:italic;">Facón?</span> Forget it. Not this time around. More Pan Apolek... An understanding of nature through the nature of a face, a gesture, "the turn of a back..."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">La Pampa y la Montaña. </span>Atahualpa, <span style="font-style:italic;">Este Largo Camino.</span> Quite amazing to reread his words. <span style="font-style:italic;">"El hombre de la montaña le va creando voces, le devuelve voces que no esperaba...." </span>(The man of the montains--voices come to him, voices return to him, unexpectedly...) The man of the plains <span style="font-style:italic;">(el sur)</span> speaks in a strong voice. For the man of the man of the mountain, <span style="font-style:italic;">"todo parece un adios..."</span> (everything seems a farewell)...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-18974051573206303072011-01-25T13:30:00.000-08:002011-01-25T13:31:25.757-08:00Analect 2.839x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhnxO0cceaT43cSAoo6W_G-qN2nmfAoX-48OSzd_33djx3RTSWPNpmy6U7eXRtrxvAwqOGPKpbwm1BGmRoN9dcmGIDstxJ6cMRFn2V45tky4nBkrZI6qAjI1joUOd4GHJvwXr/s1600/Analect2.839x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhnxO0cceaT43cSAoo6W_G-qN2nmfAoX-48OSzd_33djx3RTSWPNpmy6U7eXRtrxvAwqOGPKpbwm1BGmRoN9dcmGIDstxJ6cMRFn2V45tky4nBkrZI6qAjI1joUOd4GHJvwXr/s400/Analect2.839x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566239243466994578" /></a><br /><br />25 January 2011. Sun, and warm...<br /><br />Yesterday, with Yael...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-31467689125654254782011-01-21T14:56:00.000-08:002011-01-21T14:57:45.587-08:00Analect 2.838x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoJ9HB5_U60xyProcrxCRfxNLSnjRCkLEBYoWy5_E_UHfzgceyGM4rx4im0rh4Y4Vnu-cooOJadhk95Lk2D5ENehyGe_y4W51F165r3m6gR9X3PhYklm0tcPgJVSUPSJp4iKr/s1600/Analect2.838x.strathmore+writing.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoJ9HB5_U60xyProcrxCRfxNLSnjRCkLEBYoWy5_E_UHfzgceyGM4rx4im0rh4Y4Vnu-cooOJadhk95Lk2D5ENehyGe_y4W51F165r3m6gR9X3PhYklm0tcPgJVSUPSJp4iKr/s400/Analect2.838x.strathmore+writing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564777083110042098" /></a><br /><br />21 January 2011. Battersea Bridge, Tower of London, local lament. Border of despair--for no good reason. Or for the best of reasons. A genuine wander--"it was no wonder"--to redeem beyond the realm of fragments, the writing of lists, recordings of the names of things known. As with the horse of the Argentine. <span style="font-style:italic;">Pelajes de caballo</span>...the coats of horses. Coats, as in "a covering which offers warmth"--or is it protection--or simply a sense of difference? Beauty? Names become a kind of incantation--magic--the way the sound reflects (embodies) a world. A delight. But can it be shared? Translation--somewhere between insult and total damage. Not quite that bad--except that all is lost, all is lost...<br /><br />The rider, the seafarer, the explorer...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-15294526408550821492011-01-18T13:49:00.000-08:002011-01-18T13:51:47.955-08:00Analect 2.837x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjxAf1rSlpCR05tcf5X4a9XF1bhSWRl3PaS7TRyyS6RzXsPPetAs4WuJgDswWtJ8dWEAmmqxtOxGeC_RXqM7MP2ukdAohaj6xmK0qAWngbCySzW4Yi4NuhzyG9fG1HPqNnzdo/s1600/Analect2.837x.0%252C-51%252C-100%252Cg1.50.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjxAf1rSlpCR05tcf5X4a9XF1bhSWRl3PaS7TRyyS6RzXsPPetAs4WuJgDswWtJ8dWEAmmqxtOxGeC_RXqM7MP2ukdAohaj6xmK0qAWngbCySzW4Yi4NuhzyG9fG1HPqNnzdo/s400/Analect2.837x.0%252C-51%252C-100%252Cg1.50.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563646353136997042" /></a><br /><br />18 January 2011. Sun, warm morning...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">No los conozco.</span> That's how it is, strange tilt of a hat, hem of a dress. Familiar, yet impossibly different. <span style="font-style:italic;">Imposiblement distintos... </span>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. <span style="font-style:italic;">Italiano.</span> That immigrant lilt, transferred slowly, by ship, to the horizon of the River Plate, <span style="font-style:italic;">Río La Plata.</span> Color of lion--c<span style="font-style:italic;">olor de león</span>--Lugones' phrase. Everyone quotes him--and rightly so...<br /><br />A gift, bound in rough calfskin--small volume of <span style="font-style:italic;">Martín Fierro.</span> This from<span style="font-style:italic;"> mis compañeros</span> in the <span style="font-style:italic;">Colegio Nacional. Quinto 3ra,</span> the year 1962. Their names, too, signed one by one. Dip and flourish--<span style="font-style:italic;">muy argentino...</span><br /><br />Time...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-87688488626440545072011-01-15T19:00:00.000-08:002011-01-15T19:01:55.397-08:00Analect 2.836x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU93YibYtVTVVP8N8kmn8N_f66HGwp9DQ-5GKcF-QfP63miEzi40qYozM0GT3J6hbRWNnvGXkDqYP0xE1ckMmD9BtqPEt8I9LAnrprfLucH-dO94JYuFrTncHGTeW3rDjDAzMk/s1600/Analect2.836x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU93YibYtVTVVP8N8kmn8N_f66HGwp9DQ-5GKcF-QfP63miEzi40qYozM0GT3J6hbRWNnvGXkDqYP0xE1ckMmD9BtqPEt8I9LAnrprfLucH-dO94JYuFrTncHGTeW3rDjDAzMk/s400/Analect2.836x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562613328289007826" /></a><br /><br />14 January 2011. <span style="font-style:italic;">Pilchas gauchas, </span>on a sunny morning. Orlando Vera Cruz, song of instruction and lament. Admonition, but from a position of the seeming inferior. His own view, of course--not in the least so. A matter of pride--knowledge as well... <span style="font-style:italic;">Un tipo del campo,</span> a type, in the mimetic sense--Erich Auerbach, "Odysseus' Scar," read many years ago. The way in which a culture--that is to say, an entire view of the world--becomes manifest in word, langauge, story...song. Not such an unusual view, perhaps--we live this each day--but formulated here--brought together--by Auerbach in his exile during the war, a refugee in Istanbul--sans library, or notes, he wrote the entire book (<span style="font-style:italic;">Mimesis)</span> from the primary sources themselves... <br /><br />Older woman just now, in 7-eleven window. Oddly blond hair, small glasses propped on her nose, standing in the light, bending over to scratch free the marks on a lottery ticket... Habit and hope...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-46869721729705910042011-01-13T16:44:00.002-08:002011-01-13T16:55:56.630-08:00Analect 2.835x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfSIydE-HltLXwP-rClgqdFbrwwBKcXkgvkdsNwdYq5POZR83Pqur5tOd1Bq1qgk0SXYql0qzEMYedfpflov0OS8-4Zzh_kFvwzWlg7hEpb8nfID-KWWsohqID5Qrqx9f1ycy/s1600/Analect2.835x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfSIydE-HltLXwP-rClgqdFbrwwBKcXkgvkdsNwdYq5POZR83Pqur5tOd1Bq1qgk0SXYql0qzEMYedfpflov0OS8-4Zzh_kFvwzWlg7hEpb8nfID-KWWsohqID5Qrqx9f1ycy/s400/Analect2.835x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561835997254590722" /></a><br /><br />13 January 2011. Modus rainus. Light gray mist, shifting to something more constant, then back again.<br /><br />Torn between the Russians and the Argentines. Ancient slavic lands--rivers flowing south from the middle of a continent--Dnieper, Volga--and the peoples who live alongside them, older tribes, clans--<span style="font-style:italic;">predki</span>--ancestors <span style="font-style:italic;">(russkie, ukraintsy, belorusy)</span>... The authority of language--or is it just the words themselves--names and such. Spoken, heard, recognized, remembered...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dub-</span>-an oak tree, something on that order...<br /><br />Horses and lands. A rider's gait...<br /><br />Song...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-28116902713243176122011-01-12T14:49:00.000-08:002011-01-12T14:50:51.920-08:00Analect 2.834x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7qpA-muPafmcybjQ4bnZhbiVp4ltX08mu73XDmhz3HNOzHU5sXbmxMg3hvDk4MxlqYQgUFDRemqbuiXz0t0WJP12zGF1NsslpwBz_t-MkqjD7-00F9C0pFbGa8rU3J9-ZZ3U/s1600/Analect2.834x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7qpA-muPafmcybjQ4bnZhbiVp4ltX08mu73XDmhz3HNOzHU5sXbmxMg3hvDk4MxlqYQgUFDRemqbuiXz0t0WJP12zGF1NsslpwBz_t-MkqjD7-00F9C0pFbGa8rU3J9-ZZ3U/s400/Analect2.834x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561435473638528242" /></a><br /><br />12 January 2011. Warmer, with sun. Amsterdam cat, sitting in the window...<br /><br />Many scans later--a morning of tests, or, a testing morning. Anger can be enjoyable, but it doesn't help. Patience is infinite, time not. The balances...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Urok.</span> Lessons, these Russian drawings, words leading to images. Or to the words themselves. Sound, in part. Listening to Tolstoy--sound of writing... His voice...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Istok, </span>source. Another word. Water, for one. <span style="font-style:italic;">Fuente y manantial. </span>Water from the earth... Each creature's need...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-81594448919406783772011-01-11T14:34:00.000-08:002011-01-12T09:30:02.853-08:00Analect 2.833x (Урок 4)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_pO1AMwlH7GYI4W1L_r5cWH1VvHcAzXeoQYq4eZekMSiZbrHpUzxazA8v0Z1VEbkkq4sG1q5H8EK68KEGtR4lYIJskufpOgpm6eJ93eFTXxIgH91YNWRqIdTWz3XEIDvczNMt/s1600/Analect2.833x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_pO1AMwlH7GYI4W1L_r5cWH1VvHcAzXeoQYq4eZekMSiZbrHpUzxazA8v0Z1VEbkkq4sG1q5H8EK68KEGtR4lYIJskufpOgpm6eJ93eFTXxIgH91YNWRqIdTWz3XEIDvczNMt/s400/Analect2.833x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561060565109051490" /></a><br /><br />11 January 2011. Cold, gray day. Crossing street against the wind... Two cups of hot Brazilian bold, smiling clerk, young, dark hair, Lahore or beyond. Grizzled man in plaid jacket, curly, bending over transparent counter to pick lottery cards. Array of hope, laid out under glass...<br /><br />Headlines notwithstanding--or therein. Gleaming face of killer, a demented pride--his accomplishment of the day. "Dangerous..." Alongside, budget threats--a slower demise...<br /><br />Holding coffee between my knees--no cups on table here. To humor Lynn... "Where is my gold star, my gold star?"Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-81896183350450072372011-01-10T13:35:00.000-08:002011-01-11T14:38:44.309-08:00Analect 2.832x (Урок 3)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ-D9PPgEkvpvtB-dvnbnUvVA9VeExA6mHe0W7nqzrV3FoZLGTol2F5GQuhiQ_zDL5iMBFC4pNH9JqOUXNJT3f4foR03z9V_Ws04GAWKGQQiaobrmMpAzPVKzwd1BzsPb5KNY/s1600/Analect2.832x+g1.50.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ-D9PPgEkvpvtB-dvnbnUvVA9VeExA6mHe0W7nqzrV3FoZLGTol2F5GQuhiQ_zDL5iMBFC4pNH9JqOUXNJT3f4foR03z9V_Ws04GAWKGQQiaobrmMpAzPVKzwd1BzsPb5KNY/s400/Analect2.832x+g1.50.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560674046394199058" /></a><br /><br />9 January 2011. Cold sun..<br /><br />Russian lessons, with misspellings. Misspelling lessons, with some Russian. Book from teacher at Columbia--Leon Stillman--Graded Readings in Russian History. <span style="font-style:italic;">Chteniya po russkoj istorii. </span>New York and Oxford, 1960 and 1990. Walter Benjamin--the only true things one can say about the universe being the place and date of the publication of books.<br /><br />Benjamin. Thoughts of Kitaj. Photos of him, later years, a refugee in LA. Incongruous, after his "long period of impunity"--the London years. Dark rooms with shelves lined with books. Not quite like the Russian shelves lined with books, though. There in the background in so many photos. Homey shelves, more than scholarly. Books as a life.<br /><br />Last night, late--War and Peace. Desciption of Nikolai Rostov, later in life. <span style="font-style:italic;">Lisiye Gory. </span>Princess Marya, their three children. <br />His library--in winter. <span style="font-style:italic;">I prochital kazhduyu knigu</span>--and he read each book to conclusion...<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Kitaj quoting Robert Lowell: "Nothing is more respectable than a long period of impunity"Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-88058973114489005922011-01-07T13:18:00.000-08:002011-01-11T14:38:34.330-08:00Analect 2.831x (Урок 2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshOAkXYyR1RJECWztmZF_MVfMyBNWd-zIfCL5MXPYpxnTnTwQUXIrscVyzZrfBfkIxtM4aVUuo_ZfhkvPMHhuqGEwPiz-ZueQjmPntU8FaNkLg3H3veLcKNM3MFA-Nb3B4NKN/s1600/Analect2.831x+-40%252Cg1.70.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshOAkXYyR1RJECWztmZF_MVfMyBNWd-zIfCL5MXPYpxnTnTwQUXIrscVyzZrfBfkIxtM4aVUuo_ZfhkvPMHhuqGEwPiz-ZueQjmPntU8FaNkLg3H3veLcKNM3MFA-Nb3B4NKN/s400/Analect2.831x+-40%252Cg1.70.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559556518721807778" /></a><br /><br />7 January 2011. Misty sun, heading up Fell Street towards the park, golden light, late afternoon. Offshore breeze at Ocean Beach, large swell, sweeping in to abrupt humpy peaks. Two small figures, almost lost, far outside, ... Brown birds with beautifully fuzzy heads, lining the parapet....sparrows, for one. The starlings alongside, darting in for immediate peanut gratification. Sparrows more hesitant. <span style="font-style:italic;">Vorabyey...</span><br /><br />As with the Seurat sketch--in oil--Pauvis de Chavannes' Fisherman--a single figure, alone in a boat, the canvas itself, pictured among the reeds, shifting light, dappled greens...small moment of mystery, a living touch...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-44949628716278259702011-01-06T13:19:00.000-08:002011-01-11T14:38:24.820-08:00Analect2.830x (Урок 1)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRKOcRtG6wXL1eLUc3TkrNTBeRdK1JFmymLrodVcRYy2a89EFO_NofyrUNbtYpMQwKLK5hpUZ2NjENJQDEgxv3KLGpNbRlQyk5CkHYX7xVEJjCJ4hyphenhyphenBic2NhyphenhyphennSE5kB1obOPs/s1600/Analect2.830x3.bw.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRKOcRtG6wXL1eLUc3TkrNTBeRdK1JFmymLrodVcRYy2a89EFO_NofyrUNbtYpMQwKLK5hpUZ2NjENJQDEgxv3KLGpNbRlQyk5CkHYX7xVEJjCJ4hyphenhyphenBic2NhyphenhyphennSE5kB1obOPs/s400/Analect2.830x3.bw.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559186154662533266" /></a><br /><br />6 January 2011. Warm sun, bright day...<br /><br />Young woman and her mother, seated alongsided, from some far place--Middle East, Iran... Voices in another tongue...<br /><br />As with Rambal, the French soldier who makes his way to the Russian camp, in the night...through heavy snow. Gathered around the <span style="font-style:italic;">kostyor</span>--Russian for bonfire--they offer him vodka, kasha gruel... So many, lost, from both sides... <span style="font-style:italic;">"Moyi druzya, moyi druzya..." </span> "My friends, my friends..."Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-37989794280021777262011-01-04T15:34:00.000-08:002011-01-04T15:35:56.590-08:00Analect 2.829x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWiYGgmpRWpmGsK6FOWFYdWaftFlDWhxeNFR-tJWkEiLZgs_bbOg0xjM6s23-zjAiK78bdttzIhlmzMKSS7KkfVVKUiY4gpq0RWWwzUzfFiLSTgwEGrOvAV3mdpJ9Oh0Rzsvo/s1600/Analect2.829xr.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWiYGgmpRWpmGsK6FOWFYdWaftFlDWhxeNFR-tJWkEiLZgs_bbOg0xjM6s23-zjAiK78bdttzIhlmzMKSS7KkfVVKUiY4gpq0RWWwzUzfFiLSTgwEGrOvAV3mdpJ9Oh0Rzsvo/s400/Analect2.829xr.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558478445816827346" /></a><br /><br />4 January 2011. Winter sun.<br /><br />Story of a horse. A few lines, smudged here and there, repaired and revised--coming into being, slipping a bit, then reappearing.<br /><br />Hi hum...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-91745761944401352712010-12-24T13:19:00.000-08:002011-01-03T11:19:20.628-08:00Analect 2.827x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfld7ScYujH_0DXg4notEjv9fP6Q197jKDy7qZxNoW-QcBW7jfEP7lywlypc-X-DCzlilPAwWYXBSvcz4Xqn1OFg4cUtgI2xwDTGmjE8nzS4Eohev8Huw0yEjm6rA02FO8eC7/s1600/Analect2.827x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfld7ScYujH_0DXg4notEjv9fP6Q197jKDy7qZxNoW-QcBW7jfEP7lywlypc-X-DCzlilPAwWYXBSvcz4Xqn1OFg4cUtgI2xwDTGmjE8nzS4Eohev8Huw0yEjm6rA02FO8eC7/s400/Analect2.827x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554361682914226162" /></a><br /><br />24 December 2010. Mild sun, beads of water on car window...sparkling against dark.<br /><br />Seamus Heaney--the human chain. Which is the more proper phrase, of course. An subtle rejoinder--not to Roth himself, perhaps, but to the diminished view. "A snag in the road..." A tree branch or trunk, sprawled across the macadam. You look it up, and what do you see: road and tree. That's why it doesn't stand to be too literal about these things.<br /><br />"A man with his arms raised..." Kafka, Diaries, 1913. You see, he has us already--arms lifted first, the purpose to follow...Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-64008270151902102842010-12-22T14:52:00.000-08:002010-12-22T15:15:06.058-08:00Analect 2.826x (for Sergey Zadvorny)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBT-V3N0VG2y5aBvczw3EW7ZPeddxEhyphenhyphen0MBLSvo02qs_vtr81U5jON1D1ZdCD1uek4axTTqLMnIur3Gi9VSh2pjnlq51FHBqmpdaWO97VNqt4S-u53DyLzFMKOQ2KJNwbGPyZ7/s1600/Analect2.826x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBT-V3N0VG2y5aBvczw3EW7ZPeddxEhyphenhyphen0MBLSvo02qs_vtr81U5jON1D1ZdCD1uek4axTTqLMnIur3Gi9VSh2pjnlq51FHBqmpdaWO97VNqt4S-u53DyLzFMKOQ2KJNwbGPyZ7/s400/Analect2.826x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553643485156956594" /></a><br /><br />22 December 2010. December days...<br /><br />Word this morning from Tatiana--Sergey in a hospital, in Kharkov... <br /><br />Our wishes and hopes...<br /><br />Angela, too...<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />(Для Сережи--"Вы встабайте-ко, братцы...")Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-47781641600087020722010-12-21T12:24:00.001-08:002010-12-21T15:21:09.348-08:00Analect 2.825x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a3vb8gTgJXZu1FUpZGBIBn6GN5kndpG_qFadeTiSaZ8CMOU6c9gQ8_Dlh8WzUb8QdTMs5-2tkzFmt-92pgAlZOeaoC5XzWb8W8Rx0osooYi56XHDIg73svIidnB8h22U3eU7/s1600/Analect2.825x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a3vb8gTgJXZu1FUpZGBIBn6GN5kndpG_qFadeTiSaZ8CMOU6c9gQ8_Dlh8WzUb8QdTMs5-2tkzFmt-92pgAlZOeaoC5XzWb8W8Rx0osooYi56XHDIg73svIidnB8h22U3eU7/s400/Analect2.825x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553234081144050930" /></a><br /><br />21 December 2010. Longest night, shortest days. Zimá...<br /><br />Here, a chilly breeze crosses the street, mildly clear...<br /><br />Claims of a song. Svetalana--<span style="font-style:italic;">chansons russes</span>--the ones her father sang to her, with his guitar, when she was a girl. Songs from another world, another time... <span style="font-style:italic;">"Le Vieil Erable,"</span> The Old Maple. Stary Klën...two voices, rising and falling, intertwined. A hastened embrace, a feigned denial--her face, just inside the door, eyes bright--Is he waiting...?<br /><br />Always...<br /><br /><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbEOLrb6nws&feature=related">Старый Клёч (Девчата, 1961)</a><br /><br />* * *Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-43629437609475954642010-12-20T13:16:00.000-08:002010-12-20T13:17:53.150-08:00Analect 2.824x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOU4UlA3WvvJWEq7geaCQzXsmy3uA09fJs7CxunhJBbAz_v0BAiT6FtmkfcBo7kDuadmLnx48RFvHAOnpVm_clMgOnD_MuuNzrg-LaFAFGa_Nn7FscSF0jHSHDZcMan7zcRaCZ/s1600/Analect2.824x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOU4UlA3WvvJWEq7geaCQzXsmy3uA09fJs7CxunhJBbAz_v0BAiT6FtmkfcBo7kDuadmLnx48RFvHAOnpVm_clMgOnD_MuuNzrg-LaFAFGa_Nn7FscSF0jHSHDZcMan7zcRaCZ/s400/Analect2.824x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552876579726680674" /></a><br /><br />20 December 2010. Thunder, late afternoon downpour... This morning, sun and clouds...more rain...<br /><br />Siberian visions. A fairy queen, land east of the Urals. Rivers almost without names, each one longer than the Volga...<br /><br />Denisov and his partisan band. Petya's arrival, unannounced... A message from the general in a rain-soaked envelope... Trousers rolled up over his boots, wide face, lively eyes...<br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">Nash Platún</span>..."Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36370265.post-22575778699228201842010-12-17T11:44:00.001-08:002010-12-17T11:44:31.632-08:00Analect 2.823x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHCLAM7Y3ZwCLQ5QFGnWguecCEJf70iWPg6YvO_9nHxp45bQcakTktuvQotwNAPIxVHR_u0rwdpLU8tMXzkvJHsbJOnnuqwNRYD4opBDtUE3C1yH_JQocjh59sQPzsCGRl8Rm/s1600/Analect2.823x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHCLAM7Y3ZwCLQ5QFGnWguecCEJf70iWPg6YvO_9nHxp45bQcakTktuvQotwNAPIxVHR_u0rwdpLU8tMXzkvJHsbJOnnuqwNRYD4opBDtUE3C1yH_JQocjh59sQPzsCGRl8Rm/s400/Analect2.823x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551739379291813682" /></a><br /><br />17 December 2010. Bluster and gray--winds all over town... On the bay--steel-coloured water...<br /><br />A brass bowl, tarnished at the edges--carried in two hands, sometimes one, or held by the rim, along one's side. "I need the words of an inspiring teacher." "No, you must work harder on your practice..."Anthony Dubovskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03532115823269953129noreply@blogger.com0