30 August 2007. Warm light over the hills, a Jerusalem morning. Figure of a man just now outside, peering up Solano, one hand to his brow, waiting for the Number 18. Figures of change, a crow, perhaps, poised, or something smaller. Robin or raven...
There's no telling. All is story--an unfolding of fleetingness... In México they sing, in the Argentine, staccato--so Ilan Stavans this morning, early, on the radio. But wait, that can't be. The guttural purr of the Porteño?--all sounds bending into "zh"--immersed in atmosphere... Avellaneda, Riachuelo, Hincha La Boca...
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