5 June 2008. Gray light of dawn, gentle over distant hills. Quiet. Girl at side of pool, pouring clear liquid from white gallon container as she makes her way along the edge. River banks, riparian...the Stanislaus. Photo from Briana, yesterday, her face in profile against green-gold delta shore. "The day that we were married..."
Last night: Mansilla again, his book on Rosas, Juan Manuel. "Tuvimos que matarlo," the words invoked as a kind of explanation for one of history's darker turns. Then, a century later--Jorge Cafrune, the same phrase. Exactly. A nineteen-year-old thug--or was he?--in a light truck, careening over some provincial road...taking aim at the single figure on horseback...
Subcomandante Marcos...the place of song...
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