16 June 2007. Gray gull day. Gray sky, gray street, floppy breeze in sidewalk tree. Should know what kind--Schuyler's specialty, among others--ties, paintings, books, shirts. Brooks Brothers, for instance, or a lounging living room on Long Island where the piano is played for hours a day. One enters as a neophyte, leaves through the conservatory door.
Entering and leaving, that's it. An opening, wide as a mile--fires to be made, kindling gathered. The fogón--it's evening, somewhere on the Pampas. Water in tin kettle with half-turned spout, gold-orange gourd, silver rim--sienna of the sunset. Feelings to match...whistful, maybe, sometimes amused. A little tired from "esperando..." Always right there, in the middle, between wanting and wanting again...
The great circle--geograph, and of the heart. Algo triste. We reach out, embrace, reach out again...
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