18 March 2008. Short beeps of waiting bus, hidden from view--driver leaning into wheel as she veers to the left. A summer's day in spring. Radio sound of Barak Obama's voice--on race. What Simone called "America's great wound." Kennedy, Jakarta, Kenya. Kansas, too. An unwound web of interstices--taut and alert, juxtaposed with the snapshot of his mother, a seeker--her curiosity--meeting the world on its own terms... Another kind of vision--in the joining. Can this be ours too?
Yesterday's green, an Indonesian courtyard, children in the simplest of clothes, faces turned upwards, smiling...
Last night: gathered around a song. Jose Pedroni's poem, "Carcel." Voice of Orlando Vera Cruz. ""Los Borrachos de Diego Velásquez..." As with Garcia Lorca--each noun, weighted, an earthy presence, and at the same time, algo más. El origen de los símbolos... "Luna, paloma y trigo."
His voice--con todo cariño, "Eso..."
No comments:
Post a Comment