Analect 2.223x

31 January 2008. Pearl gray skies with whisp of cloud hovering over rooftops of the cotidienne, one silver line separating the heavens. Halfmoon awaits over lost beaches--something from Lorca--the lonely solitude of September, unvisited...unredeemed.

A conversation--those that we might yet have. Touch of raw umber mixed in with ultramarine, titanium white. Bringing alive. Tiny figure, dark shoulders, facing the east. Or west? They both matter. Yesterday evening: a circle of backs, seen from the hall. Joe's class, gathered around. He's down there, somewhere, floor level, doing his thing--an inveterate magic. Primate behavior--to test and smell. Asian girl in loose white top, black tights, perched on a table top for better view. "Joe, Tony's here." Nod of no--don't tell him--I step back--don't break the spell...

Analect 2.222x

29 January 2008. Grumbly gray morning, bits of rain involve themselves at every step. A poncho perhaps...? Life of the pampas--los crudos y los cocidos, rojos y azules. Wars of old. A telephone conversation with ATT--the infinite slowness of the new DSL service. At the end: where are you located. Latin-America. In what part? Argentina--Buenos Aires. Ay, un Porteño--pero no me di cuenta...!

Twenty self-portraits circle the the room. Julia standing just in front of brown wood wall, holding painted wedge of cardboard with three holes, lifting it up to the light, then to her face--a window, a mirror, a mask. Her intricate explanation, in English from afar...

Dark green letters on a high light-colored wall: Tsim Sha Tsui--the Star Ferry. Wan Chai, Central, Sheung Wan.

The fishermen's shacks at Tai-O...

Analect 2.221x

25 January 2008. Cold, rain. A lighter gray against the glistening dark wet asphalt, two parallel yellow lines, the rules of geography, and one rickety state law sign, tilting to the south: yield to pedestrians. Forlorn.

Verloren. Sabina, yesterday evening. I try to explain--to account for--my torn and humbled scraps of brown corrugated board--painting on air, as it were, on time itself, as present as one can be possible, and yet, the problems of eternity. Eternity, yes--a line from a song. Just down the street: a curio shop, dry goods from Maroc, a Singapore sling. And pinned to the wall: photo of a single wave on a glassy morning, next to the Oceanside pier. Bait house half-way out, man in red Macintosh--or was it a faded flourescent orange safety vest--with hooks and lines and sinkers--balls of lead, clipped to a length of silver line...

"We'll lower him down on a golden chain..."

Just ask Chuang Tzu, next time you see him...

Analect 2.220x

24 January 2008. Luminous band of yellow-white tops off expansive mass of even gray cloud. Filigree branches laced just in front. Two small birds. darting, very high. Almost lost...

Yesterday: recalcitrant and engaging. First class. Chaotic jumble of last year's things--we move them out. A new beginning. Setting out the colors, Cadmium Red Medium (hue okay), maybe Cadmium Orange (important for me). Then Alizarin--a bluer red, but fugitive, followed by the earth colors: Yellow Oxide--pasty off-tone gold, and Raw Sienna--Italia in the making. Raw Umber, too (why always so humble and so valuable?), then Burnt Sienna--Italy again. Burnt Umber--deep, withdrawn (you'll need a good brand of pigment here), followed by Ultramarine (the queen of blues). Prussian Blue--optional, reborn as Pthalo, leaning toward the green, with a patina of copper, but watch out--very high in chroma. Then, Jenkins Green--not too yellow, not too sharp. Also, two whites: zinc (for tints--always transparent) and titanium (covering all)...

Across the room, Nirmanpreet--backlighted against the north windows. Her chestnut hair, very dark, maybe with a touch of red, and a soft high-necked blouse--blue verging on crimson--a red from within, veiled but insistent--impossible to measure...

Analect 2.219x

22 January 2008. Xolodno, xolodno, ochen' xolodno, gospodá. Fellow citizens, it be chilly. Twinkly gray in the sky, threatening sun along the southern horizon, touch of rain. In the living room this morning, wicker basket on an old trunk, a cooing sound--at first a dove, but no, Natasha, her fluffy curl, entwined and esconced in some furry dreamland...

Through the window: two red tail lights on a midnight blue Chevy truck--everything looking good. Then, Richard's voice, in a downward slide: "Well, there goes our retirement...," proclaimed with cheery resignation (the stock market). Nonetheless, he chugs out the door...

Dubliners, Ivy Day in Committee Room. "Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall and his face slowly reemerged into light."

The ode to Parnell...

Analect 2.218x

21 January 2008. Gray with rain with sun. With rain. Greg running up sidewalk, small camera in hand. Even today, possibilities...

Sergey Zadvorny. Anchored gracefully just to the right of the Blüthner, parlor of Princess N. Low-lit sconces, a bank of candles. He nods subtly to Tatiana--Tatiana--seated alongside, and there Leporello comes alive: voglio fare il gentiluomo...e non voglio piú servir... His basso cantante--singing--a mathematician from the drafty dormitories of Dnepropetrovsk, via Kharkov, Odessa, the conservatory.... A young boy on the edge of the Black Sea, swimming in the churning tide. Thracia, Scythia, Tauris. The Borysthenes, flowing south. Chersonesus, Theodosia. Un mondo entero--all within reach, all forgotten...

"You must know everything..."

Analect 2.217x

18 January 2008. Gold sun for just these few moments, pouring down Solano. Round about eight. Image of Javed, on his bicycle--what at first look like headphones over his ears, gray orbs with a horizontal band of white--but no, simply muffs against the cold. Think of Lahore, in winter--or Peshawar--topcoat and shalmar-kameez. Hard to reconcile with the counter at 7-eleven, where rolling franks on their continuous electric grill, or cigarettes in the overhead rack, or lotto boards, or cellophane pies... A whistful glance towards the street, touch of consternation on his face, tired...

Life and life only...

Analect 2.216x

17 January 2008. Clear and beau. Following Bonnard, always the note, in pencil, somewhere on a daybook page, along with the snatch of drawing that catches the light... The edge of a balustrade, perhaps, from one of his walks on the hillside at Le Cannet. To hold the motif...

And so the French--a cravat, tied just so, or the turn of a phrase... "To drive 300 kilometers for a piece of cheese," a love for what is, the luxury of being...

Winter morning, Oceanside. Ocean temp. 59 degrees, noted in chalk, on a worn signboard by the pier... Gray-tan sandstone cliffs, all along the coast... The materials...

Analect 2.215x

16 January 2008. Sunlight on yellow broom, tucked into grillwork of large white truck. Man in black with shaven head, just a sliver, pops into cab of Pacific Heating & Plumbing vehicle across the way. Y lo demás...and all the rest. Like the woman in blue hood, just alongside, tilt-up dark glasses over her specs, a pair of red mittens tucked into her right pocket. A long time before I glimpse her face...

Idumentaria del gaucho. Para el especialista? The word itself, from the Quechua, "huachu", an orphan or vagabond. Or the Arabic, "chaucho," a variety of latigo. Or (from another source) the Araucano, "Gachú"--camarada o amigo, hombre de origen español que habita las llanuras de la América...

Chaleco, ceñido, tirador. Calzoncillos, bombachas, facón de plata. Espeulas, botas de potro. The latter cut from hide, the lower leg of the animal itself. Cruel. Fitted to the rear of the foot of the rider--un jinete...

Las llanuras de la América...

Analect 2.214x

15 January 2008. Gray with fog, yellow lights against the mist. Tradesmen's trucks with welded racks, smokey shapes, gleaming. Two figures walking side by side, an ebony woman in light blue, her left hand raised, palm up, in a gesture of agreement. Her
companion, much older, in black hat with wide wide brim...

Mom's birthday today. Jane Austin at the foot of the bed, what she was reading. Listening to, that is. But she always spoke of it as reading...

Alicia...

Analect 2.213x

14 January 2008. Golden light on camphor trunks, stucco walls, parsing the east-west driveways... Mid-January, a taste of spring before the rains. Jack at 80, curvature of the earth, another horizon, the plane flying almost fast enough to keep pace with changing light.

One in the morning, SFO. Singapore Airlines for Hong Kong. A line of villagers from the Philippines--Cabanatuan, Tarlac, Dagupan--live chickens in slatted crates, bales of clothing, over-sized vinyl luggage bound with rope. A single Indian man in a white turban, his whispy trimmed beard, also white, and western coat, long scarf wrapped around the shoulders and lower face--pulled in, as it were, a portable world...

Los Gauchos Judíos, Alberto Gerchunoff... Between the rivers, Entre Ríos...

Analect 2.212x

11 January 2008. Magnolia dark against luminous sky, grays and storm blue. Two gulls whirl low to the street, dipping and turning, white on darker gray. Yesterday: tiny man in Hollywood manifest, self-proclaimed--he vanishes into a world of animated dragons. Best to avoid.

Sun now on white side of nondescript Toyota, sky picks up light from the east, flooding under the clouds. Flicker of absent-minded fluorescent on cleaner's ceiling: eight o'clock. Javed upon his ancient three-speed, leaning to the left as he makes his way across the 7-eleven lot, heading down Solano...

Russian wolf-hound on darkened beach, arched against southern winter sky...

Analect 2.211x

10 January 2008. Rain in the morning, damp leaves, dark wood--song of the north. Yesterday: young woman on the subway, Fruitvale stop, slumped in parallel seat near door, hand over face. Thick white sneakers with black nylon running pants overlapped, sloping to the outside. An inadvertent identity along lines of class, gender, ethnicity--all those words that tell us so little about who she might be--like the young couple, a week before, in the Oakland airport, narrow-faced girl in similar garb, her lanky boyfriend alongside, also slumped, lap-box of pizza and something else that I can't quite make out, giant sodas--she takes one last fierce bite from a corn chip, then they snooze, his head way over on her shoulder...

To draw all this, in some way... Or, perhaps, two trucks in the rain...

Analect 2.210x

4 January 2008. Sheets of rain on soaking streets. Chunky woman in heavy dark coat, whisp of blond hair flying, scurries from door of 7-eleven to late-model car. Red brake lights against sea of iridescent gray.

Lluvia sobre el Mar. Yesterday's painting--small square of carboard. A summation? The most indistinct, perhaps--rivulets of surface, falling, warmer and cooler, to an inadvertent horizon, lost, really, against distant sky. A single tree, well to the left, branching above, also disappearing into air.

It's the size and quality of detail that creates a sense space--even on its own.

Looking out the window, in Oceanside, Alberta Street, maybe 1960. Far, straight horizon again. Implacable. A freighter (Marine transport?) well in the distance--charcoal-toned smudge--heading north. Along the coast...

Analect 2.209x

3 January 2008. Arc of storm cloud moving in, dark grays to white against small patch of blue. One fine line of light along upper edge. Three gulls race across, heading west... Opposite: incandescent globe of Navigator office, tucked away under slanted roof. Fleecy puffs...

Atahualpa Yupanqui: Camino del Indio. Recorded in Buenos Aires in 1942. Doubly distant. His narrowing face seen in shadow, two dark eyes gaze past us towards another horizon. Vidala del silencio...tiny embellishments brought down from la montaña--things past, carried within...

Analect 2.208x

2 January 2008. Glassy green pool, wobbly black lines, morning shimmer. A few veterans plow back and forth, the boustrophonic principle in action, herdsmen of old, a white ox, a pair of lambs...

Las cosas criollas. Santefesinos y los de Tucumán. La familia Ferreira, iron mongers, perhaps--la Giudecca--and their daughter, Nélida, "la mas bella en la provincia." First letter arrives: a search party for a downed plane, brother Raúl wandering in the mountains, the altiplano, makes his way to the Chilean side. "It's hard for me to explain about my being dead..."

Las cosas criollas. Expanse of the pampa, reaches of dry grass into an even drier distance. Silencio. A streambed through local stone--its own particular feel, also dry--narrow run of cobalt, out of those same hills...