27 January 2010. Garmoshka and guitarra. Staraya Smolenskaya... A curving earthen road in autumn, stand of narrow trees, forest floor. Two white birches, rising at an angle from common root, luminous. Conifers--larch and pine, darker below, then thinning in a scatter of light against gray sky. Subtle reds, burning, more felt than observed, colors falling...
The artist, or wanderer, in Babel's terms. Two white mice tucked beneath his shirt--a replenishing of brushes...key to the painter's trade...
"You have a predilection for familiar faces, my dear Pan Apolek..."
Natalie's face, in parking lot dark. And Chris, yesterday morning, across the bright table--a Pennsylvania childhood, reappearing...
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Here's the Pasternak poem that I wrote out in today's drawing...
Ветер
Я кончился, а ты жива.
И ветер, жалуясь и плача,
Раскачивает лес и дачу.
Не каждую сосну отдельно,
А полностью все дерева
Со всею далью беспредельной,
Как парусников кузова
На глади бухты корабельной.
И это не из удальства
Или из ярости бесцельной,
А чтоб в тоске найти слова
Тебе для песни колыбельной.
Wind
I am no more but you live on,
And the wind, whining and complaining,
Is shaking house and forest, straining
Not single fir trees one by one
But the whole wood, all trees together,
With all the distance far and wide,
Like sail-less yachts in stormy weather
When moored within a bay they lie.
And this not out of wanton pride
Or fury bent on aimless wronging,
But to provide a lullaby
For you with words of grief and longing,
1953
(Translated by Lydia Pasternak Slater)
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