Analect 2.429x

30 January 30. Beauty day, sun...

And this morning--accident, inadvertancy, mistake. That old conundrum--redressed here in white-on-white--the paper's edge another world, following Bill Midgette-- "a whole other kind of space," where the realm of imagination runs chock-a-block into the contingencies of the ding-an-zich...

Or do I overstate the case? A poorly drawn horse, rather--and a misplaced bird... But can a bird ever find itself misplaced? More perhaps a sense of doubt--the alignment of the host, paralax and lines of sight--getting a bead, the perfect view...

For we don't shoot here, no, long live Ni Tzan...

Analect 2.428x

30 January 2009. Warm wind at night, dry, blue skies, sun...

Choroshie otnosheniya...good relations, entre Indios, digamos--or simpy between each other. And how to begin? An open boat on a narrow sea, the worn wood, each strake bent just so around the forms of ribs, also formed, according to their pattern--the breathing, as it were, where chest and lungs expand to fill with air, holding, releasing, then holding again. Curves will follow, a matter of delight, each one tender, necessary...

As with a hand or an arm--caress...

Analect 2.427x

28 January 2009. White smoke, vapor trail, blue sky. A trifecta of sorts--choosing the first three finishers in just that order. So often in threes--the possibility of choice, a fork in the road, paths not taken...

Late afternoon in the fall, smallish room, high windows. Song from somewhere on the plains, Texarcana to Wyoming, cattle on the trail, and a request...

I ride an old paint...
I lead an old dam
I'm goin' to Montana
Just to throw the houlihan...

Analect 2.426x

27 January 2009. Heliotrope, blue sky, and flash of cyclist's cobalt sleeve, his polycarbonate helmet wedge, streamlined white...

Just before: Beeping bleat of golden bus, empty now, parked askance in 7-eleven lot. Children all in or all out, somewhere along the run, a curving lane in Kensington, uphill slope, redwoods and firs, mockingbird in a crooked branch--or hint of the phainopepla, Leonard's bird, "silky robe", hidden in marsh mist, and diving now for something small and on the wing...

Analect 2.425x

26 January 2009. Sun this morning, bright like spring. Quiet air in the palm branches...

A teacher in Buenos Aires, seen for an instant, Spanish girl within the matronly form. Maybe the shoulders, or the boyish hair, pulled in close to the sides of her head, flowing below...

"El pelo, sí. Cada vez distinto..." Ringlets maintained like an exotic crop--an orchid in the arctic...

Olavarría, otra vez...

Analect 2.424x

23 January 2009. Rain on street. Older woman in dark shoes, dark coat, looks up slightly as she walks by. Tim in hair salon--pointing emphatically through window--then once again, followed by gesture of lifting a cup to drink. Coffee jar balanced on gray Honda roof...

Re-animation, all the rivulets and streams. Mississippi John Hurt, his beautiful knobby hands, left thumb loose as he slides the chords up and down the neck. Story of how he learned--his mother's beau--the fellow with the guitar. Approached in the middle of the night, trying the notes--almost in silence...

Resistance and deluge, a conversation re-begun. Somewhere in between... Maybe more a song...

Analect 2.423x

22 January 2009. Gray rain. Wet pools on dark street. Black car nosing along. Cloud shapes of Huang Zhou...

Words of Po Chü-i, a thousand years: Midnight lamp I sit by the south window...

And this one, our own...

Analect 2.422x

21 January 2009. Gray layers of cloud, warm air. Late in the evening: golden interior of sardine tin, three small fish, crosswise. A caper and an artichoke heart. Something right...

The Hypnerotomachia Polyphili--rediscovering Antiquity through dream, Poliphilus, his narrow column of type ending in the characteristic wedge--meaning and it's disappearance--or, at the least, it's dissolution into form. The word divagate--something of the same--to wander or digress--from the river's truth. But does not the stream itself wander?

Steps for a dance--something definite. "Cada figura se iniciará con pie derecho."

And then...?

Analect 2.421x

20 January 2009. Ooooooooooooooooh....

Red truck in morning light, white swirl of American ingenuity...hope, opportunity...

Maybe even grace...

Analect 2.420x

19 January 2008. Seemingly unending sunshine. Natasha on threshhold this morning, her pearly dark face, questioning eyes, looking back for a few moments before she scampers across the yard...

Tiny creature moving in the evening. Plump field mouse, but indoors. Studio surprise--the miniature roundness, also poised for a moment, then darting back to safety under the shelves...

Movements towards feedom. La Pasto Verde. A song named for a woman named for a field of green grass...

Brava gaucha en los fortines, sureños
bella flor del jarillal,
mil soldados te quisieron
pero la tierra te quiso más...

Analect 2.419x

15 January 2009. Sun, no question about it. And peek of distant hills, seen against the sky, wedged between blank beige bank wall and empty escrow concern. Shadow shape of the Navigator escutcheon still present on slumpstone facade, its curved top, four bolt points, unmanned...

El zorro gris--that was the phrase, learned in large gray car of the Kraiselburd clan, en route from Ezeiza to La Plata, maybe 1961. YPF--yacimientos petrolíferos, how the words attach themselves to consciousness--with constant pale flame pale against even more pale sky. The clouds, too, smallish and ruminant--sweeping in from off the Argentine planes...

Carlos Romaní, singing with Juan Carlos Barragan--the Jockey Club, porteños all...

Today--Alicia as well...

Analect 2.418x

14 January 2008. Clear sky, bay to hills. Lee in woolen huntman's hat, at dawn, pushing her cart of salvaged odds and ends...

Or Beatriz Ponce, here in the wee hours of the Argentine--Arrebalera--another song...

Analect 2.417x

13 January 2009. Warm wind in the night, branches flying, with gusts from the northeast... Safron light at dawn, pouring through curtain into downstairs room...

The Jockey Club, Buenos Aires once more, with Tinita, una anciana...more so than I'd remembered. Her fragile outward form--long dress, pale blue scarf (la Argentinita), rings on several of her fingers. Eyebrows arched over veiled gaze...

Then: standing, seen from farther back. Long dress all the way to floor, just her face and forearms and hands...

Was she famous once? Only the sparrow knows...

Analect 2.416x

12 January 2008. Gusting winds from the east, sun, cirrus clouds and blue sky.

The Jockey Club, Bs. As., where on Friday nights, late, the microphone is open--Tango...y algo más--and the porteños sing out their hearts--for each other, and for themselves alone. The songs are old--and deeply known. Francisco Rizzi, a distinguished man in a gray suit, No veremos más (the words still true). Or Titina, Nada más, her flowered blouse and fine pearl-gray hair. Carlos Romaní as well--the master of ceremonies--who joins in with his own modestly insistent bit of mitteleuropean theatre--Agitando pañuelos...

Amar y callar, El amor desolado, Yo no sé que han hecho tus ojos, Ventanita de arrabal...

O Marité, cantando, Nostalgias...

Analect 2.415x

9 January 2009. Cold winter sun, frosty wet on garden window, Nicola curled at end of bed.

Cuchi Leguizamon, su música-- folklore del norte--hasta Erik Satie ("este viejo hermoso a quien tanto queremos un grupo de salteños.") Trained as a lawer, but the practice didn't suit him. As his son Juan Martín explains, "terminaba defendiendo gente que nunca pudo pagar nada, como algún indio del Chaco salteño, algún cuatrero del Pilcomayo."

Instead, they became a part of his songs...

Almost no recordings--he had no use for the industry. "Y él tenía una idea de la musica como un producto artístico que provocara la sensibilidad del oyente, estaba por fuera de cualquier relación mercantíl."

Very late: a tour of Europe in 1991, "el clima casi hipnótico que iba construyendo solo con su voz y su piano, entretejiando relatos y canciones y capturando la atención casi religiosa de una audiencia que--al menos en parte--seguramente no entenddía sus palabras."

Juan del Monte...una chacarera...

Analect 2.414x

8 January 2009. Pale yellow morning sun, pushing through the gray...

Mapa de las cumbres de Aconquija. Los Varela, Huaycama, Andagalá, El Manchao, Rosario de Colona, Cumbicha...

Unos viejos on a quiet bench, Casa de Abuela Celia, Colpes, emblems of eternity, or our nearest route thereto. Kelly and Pablo, running everywhere, his tiny rambunctious smile. Thank you for apple slice. Un mundo entero...

Analect 2.413x

7 January 2009. Gray winter's air, white smoke puffs against pewter sky...

Un zorzal--su gran habilidad para el canto. Lo argentino--the pampas thrush. And a figure seated at a table, hands raised slightly, in thought, or in a moment of conversation. Jaime Dávalos. As in the café in Córdoba, decades ago, with Atahualpa Yupanqui and the others. Las canciones, winding their way through the hills...

Ahora que estás ausente
mi canto en la noche te lleva.
Tu pelo tiene el aroma
de la lluvia sobre la tierra...

Analect 2.411x

5 January 2009. Gray skies--furrowed clouds. Surcado, as in fields--the dark plow lines on loam.

Figure on horseback, Cafrune perhaps. A man of the people--del campo--chambergo folded back, his long reins. A vial of earth from Boulogne-sur-Mer, he was carrying to Yapeyú...

Zamba, de mi esperanza
amanecida como un querer
Sueño, sueño del alma
que a veces muere sin florecer...

Analect 2.410x

2 January 2009. Sad gray rain. Muted reds across the way--open, same-day service, Marlboro sign... And a man in green slicker walking small fine-boned dog. West Coast sounds...

Natasha at top of steps to back-door--her puffy pearl-gray luxury--looking back over shoulder--the door, the door...

Brooke, somewhere in the East, winter's cold...

Analect 2.409x

30 December 2009. Foggy streets, up and down. Yellow disk of sun, veiled in gray...

Reading Shumway--his last word. Sarmiento, Rivadavia, Mariano Moreno--the heroes unravelled--brought low. An imagined communality--and yet another Yankee pronunciamiento. How things should be: José Artigas, Bartolomé Hidalgo. Thanks, Nick, but check it out--our Paris of the South, where a figure in heavy coat, standing at the narrow counter of Café Brasil, tips back a small sweet black espresso...

Bartolomé Mitre, winter light...

Analect 2.408x

19 December 2008. Rain water on porch, dark red in wavery amber light. Ying's face this morning, smile plus doubt. A river traveller's farewell...

Dance, foot turned back to steady the hip. La Argentinita. Encarnación López Julvez, de España, arms pulled high over her dark hair, a white flower tucked in behind, solid frame arched to the compás. Which is all.

White smoke over wet roof, drifts against gray sky...

Analect 2.407x

18 December 2008. Icy dawn, whoosh of Bart train on distant rail, earlier than early. Ice on all the east-west streets. A touch of Chicago comes to the East Bay.

Last night: the mathematicians. And Chizu Omori, a girl from Oceanside--from before the war. Now, her long gray-white hair, small frame, composed posture. All visible in just the way she occupies a chair. They were strawberry farmers, on leased land, "like a Japanese village."

Then: the Arizona camps, Rabbit in the Moon, dispersion. So she came to Berkeley--McCarthy period, loyalty oaths, Nixon. "Seems I spent my whole life voting against him..."

Chickens on Sixth Street, a feathery redemption.

Analect 2.406x

17 December 2008. Icy dawn, crinkly grass, glittery shards at edge of street. Pool bodies and shower mist, comraderie.

Last few days until they close--the Albany Pool--a monument, of sorts, gone...

The Szechenyi or the Rudas--baths of old, Buda and Pest, brought by the Turks, or the Romans before. The Gellért--green waters and marmol--four Hungarians of a certain age, submerged to the neck, gathered around a chessboard, or the Napi Gazdasag, financial news, held in two hands, eyeglasses perched on nose--calcium, magnesium, potassium--stocks dive and soar...

Analect 2.405x

16 December 2008. Rain on the streets, luminous, slanting. Indoors: the green pool, veiled in fog...

A mysterious Hungarian bath, even from Roman times--Sylvia Plachy's world, reeds and sows, all white, carved wood, stark turns against the snow. A figure, bundled in furs, totem of the dark, leaping now, with curved horn--winter's dance...

Golden flames...

Analect 2.404x

15 December 2008. Rain at dawn, Nicola with paws high on living room door, hoping for a quick exit. Natasha, the slinky blimp, in back, hoping for same. Then Ying, her wide face, sleepy eyes, a pool girl in the half-light. Watching over the living.

Photo of a man clinging to wall of rock. Normal colors--as if everyday, but we're two days out and 2000 feet up--on the face of Half Dome--kodachrome notwithstanding. A party of three, one tenuous line snaking down from above--the Roof. Another heaven...

Or mallards, in the estuary--Martinez perhaps, a bit of wetland amidst the powerlines and petroleum. Faithful in the dark waters, forever...

Analect 2.403x

11 December 2008. Sun. Lee's sharp laugh just outside. Then Lina in dark maroon sari, white five-gallon pail with thin layer of suds, pouring over curb. World needs a wash-up...

Nothing much to say, really. Driving home very late, curving street through a few redwoods, wash of headlights on Berkeley homes. Silent thoughts, here and there, one by one...

Lima beans with turmeric, peppered gold--a peasant king's repast...

Analect 2.402x

10 December 2008. Even and clear, two crows--make that three, turning and diving, white chalk dash of jet trail low on the southern horizon...

"I felt a sense that this is an awakening of the people." The subcomandante, rumpled shirt, lime green wristband and pulsy macro-chronometer, in a guest appearance in Sonora--a pueblo in Río Yaquí. Dusty brown pickup, men in work clothes and desert hats, the Indian woman alongside, all reds and maroons, a pink skirt, set against the light blue cloth at her neck--colors of awareness, her high cheeks in shadow--midday light--hands folded, eyes full of inquiry...

"Yo tenía el sentido..."

Analect 2.401x

9 December 2008. Cold night, bright dawn. Laura the pool guard, wrapped in headband, sweats and scarf...huddled on couch in between sets...

Voice of the governor, his thick a's and o's--that östereicher touch, radio days. "There will be cuts," gash on side of leg--as with Stefan, the swim team coach, hiking up his cuff as his workmate winces. Her round face, all this way and that--dismay as cure...

Antonio Gramsci--the hegemony of culture. Words from a harsher--and clearer--time. La lucha, the struggle... Letters from prison, the one to his mother...

"La vita è così, molto dura, e figli qualche volta devono dare dei grandi dolori alle loro mamme, se vogliono conservare il loro dignità di uomini..."

Analect 2.400x

8 December 2008. Jumbled gray shelf of cloud. Colder, then warmer, then colder again...

Question of pirates--Somalia, this time, not the Caribbean. A Johnny Depp with a purpose--forget Vanessa Paradis in her two-tone pumps--here hunched barefoot, speeding across a choppy sea, perched on the prow of a heavy white fiberglass launch. No Hollywood bandana, but an assault rifle, grenades--something to write home about, seen vaguely from the brige of the ship, five miles off, a blip on the radar--trawler, most likely-- tuna, jackfish, silvertip shark...

Analect2.399x

5 December 2009. Sun in December, no complaints. Wind from the hills, palm fronds.

Bonnard. His impressive smudges, nudged along a vector of patience and true belief. Belief, yes, but in what? Quiet, perhaps, and the play of warm and cool--a moment's sunlight on a southern balustrade, spot of warm white and yellow gold illuminating the rose-violet shadows. Who can say--words are nice, but the essential pathways of the optic nerve will out. Was he joshing--the techno-speak, as with Thomas Eakins, the opthamologist--seen by chance, scored prism in his hands...

Learners take note, the horizon beyond...

Analect 2.398x

4 December 2008. Sun through scarves of mist, tracing the hills.

Yesterday--the ancestors. Faces of all ages--kindly and benevolent, peering down from the brightly lit walls, forging a connection through sense of touch. A dignified man with browned face, strong but rounded shoulders, hands tucked in pockets, standing in front of the landscape of Michoacan. A pueblo--Jaime has to check un papelito to recall the name, a place where "the houses still looked impoverished and broken. Despite this, the weather is beautiful and the people are as well..."

Later, gentle room with warm white walls--sitting side by side, la musica, beginning we know not where...

As well...

Analect2.397x.jpg

3 December 2008. Fog again, bridges veiled... Freighters hidden in the mist, their mournful horns...

Odetta, no more. Her wall of sound--entirely from within, stately and at home... a manger after the harvest, pouring forth...

We bow again, the distance--lost...

Friends.

Analect 2.396x

2 December 2008. Nice gloomy clouds with patches of blue... lifting through into tender sky...

An ancient encounter in the cafeteria line, amidst a sea of youth--all milling about, with paper pails of rice and meat, piles of toasted bread... Both in the footwear of the literati class--flip-flops, that is. One-time wanderers on a lonely road. The lost distance--a recognition and a bow...

Analect 2.395x

1 December 2008. Gray fog holding the dawn, yellow street lamps, muted, gone.

Delta roads--rutted and worn--a farm track into valley air. Flooded fields--alfalfa, rice, corn--now standing empty. The Mokolumne, winding low, mournful calls from above--our sandhill cranes, banking in a wide V, calling out to those below. Hidden in ochre against brown fields--pairs, in furrows, gathered.

A dance, wings held high, all awkward leg, but still...their grace...

Analect 2.394x

26 November 2008. Fish-tail skies, gray November afternoons, a deeper dusk towards evening...

C. Romaní, in the Confitería Jockey Club, Buenos Aires...holding forth. His central European presence, verging on Bucharest, hair parted down the middle, Brecht-like but convivial. A dark shirt and tie, wire-rimmed glasses, of middle years, delighted to be singing for us, as he takes his place in front of the applique flagstone hearth, sports tv, and all the other paraphernalia of a more modern age...

Charming, his finger in the air to emphasize the meaning and cadence of a phrase. Sense of theater--always--but smiling in a personal way--again, his delight. An art, a craft, a souvenir...

Agitando pañuelos te vi...

Analect 2.393x

25 November 2008. Rose-madder clouds over eastern hills. Autumn light.

The poet José Pedroni--sencillo, humano, accesible por su claridad fraterna, religioso en la intimidad o en el hogar, compañero de la naturaleza, cantor primitivo, honesto, revelador de un vitalismo de su propio mundo cotidiano... La gota de agua (Buenos Aires, 1923), Diez mujeres, romances Buenos Aires 1941 y 1945)...

La luna verdadera está en la carcel;
la luna buena no ha nacido.
En la carcel están con fulgor blanco,
luna, paloma y trigo...

Analect 2.392x

24 November 2008. Sliver of moon in dawn sky, autumn mists veiling the hills. Chinese fields of long ago... Hand-picked rows of rice, the amber stubble on gray-green earth, each plant tended. Surcos...

A scarf dance, green and exuberant--a kitchen towel, really, held high--to the rhythms of Prokofiev, or Borodin. Called forth from the same fields, the same roiled earth... In story, in song...

The years come round...

Analect 2.391x

21 November 2008. Sparkle of sun, luminous sky over rooftops again, yellower and whiter below.

Jimmy Schuyler in New York--the Chelsea Hotel, his final port of call. Morning arrives on West 23rd Street, inimitably, in glimpses...

Or an early French anarchist-- Èmile Armand--described as "un del activistes libertaris més coneguts i populars de la seva època, especialment en els cercles àcrates iligats a l'eclecticisme, el naturisme, el vegetarianisme i les opcions comunitàries de vida." Not even sure just which laguage this comes through in--maybe Catalán--or Langdoc, the old tongue, voices of the south, born in stone...

Cezanne...

Analect 2.390x

20 November 2008. Heavy gray morning cloud shelf--darker now towards run of roof--sudden jets of white cleaners' smoke, dancing against thy sky.

"Life, friends, is boring..." John Berryman, following the events of the day. Or the Russians, perhaps. "Skuchno na etom stvetye, gospoda," a phrase remembered from harder times--Gogol', that is-- "It's a dreary world, gentlemen." My stock-holders--note the possessive--wagging the dog of the tail. Entering into trouble--theirs as well our own.

The meaning of all feelings--on the table, as it were. As they should be. A place setting, silver, polished crystal, faceted glass. The accoutrements of another life. Professor Sinigaglia--Marcello Mastroianni to us--sent to organize the factory workers of Torino in a late 19th century winter. I Compagni...

Hannibal. Aeneas. Baudelaire...

Analect 2,289x

19 November 2008. Gray shelf of sky, Chicago of the stratosphere...

Figure of Carl, large and homey--but homey with a purpose, making his way up to the podium. Room prepared with kinte cloth tables, large borrowed plant in corner, lights low, the rows of chairs, packed and anticipatory, brimming, buzzing--musicians up front, string bass, drums, arch-top jazz guitar, making their relaxed and experimental way through all the changes. All the changes--yes, and what we're up against. The Earth, the City and the Hidden Narrative of Race. What it might mean to call each other brother--to call each other sister--to reach out, to join, to see...

(for Carl Anthony)

Analect 2.388x

18 November 2008. Blue-gray dawn, backlighting the hills. Stream of jet, drawn upwards--a single narrow path...

Northern Italian winter, December light in the Dolomiti, over the Brenner pass in a broken-down car, muddy wipers working away, straight arrow of the Öesterreichs Autobahnen giving way to total latinate curves... Bressanone, Chiusa, Bolzano--even the names...

A climber's foothold, in the vowells, undeterred. Mastroianni, in wire-rimmed glasses (i Compagni), whispy beard--a prophet, a teacher...

Il futuro (the spark)...

Analect 2.387x

17 November 2008. Gray dawn, trickle down sun, still.

Bail out or no, let my Impalas go. Our times, rancho. A mobile home park, nestled in the foothills, space number 283. "I had near up to 1500 feet in there," wall of flames...

Bakunin: "The more vividly the future is visualized, the more poweful the force of destruction..." The interactive intervention of human beings in the realization of their destiny...

Whose side, whose side are you on...

Analect 2.386x

14 November 2008. Attentive autumn sun. Young Paul--the neighbor's son, his short pants and school satchel, miniature confident stride. Spotting me up the driveway: "Is your name morning...?" An original question. Asopposed to Santa Barbara college girl, seeking radio words to describe a Santa Ana fire: "It was like super super smokey..."

Or maybe all speech...

Theatricality and sincerity. Anthony's note: A Dylan poseur on a London stage...

And yet Gauguin, his ageless young women, side by side, breast to breast, their shoulders melding... The musical figures in Titian's Fete Champetre--each one turned to the other's light...

Renoir: "Wait for me, Gabrielle..."

Analect 2.385x

13 November 2008. Dark cornice--aluminum against blue, sun.

Words. More so and more so--crusader castles on a Levantine shore--each stone labeled and numbered--reconstructable, according to plan... A small Roman cursive "r", or an "l"...the loopy wandering of forms, each one bent to signification. Civilization's tool, from the get-go. Counting sheep with knotted twine--another knot, another month's reward. Sustenance, an absolute...

And yet...

Edward Krasinski--lone figure on stubbly hill, narrow, carved against the light--an arc of crooked wire--dangling spools, or cups, or cans--some small thing, mankind's impediments--chains of meaning, marking the impossible, yes, but there it is--as in a sentence, or a song...

Analect 2.384x

12 November 2008. Sun hidden within hillside mist, gray terciopelo, softly...

Europa and beyond. A stiff pose, borrowed from some unknown queen, pretending in turn--Velasquez, Goya, Chardin--turning away from furrowed fields in a spate of pride--to rule--her unholy tiara, all stolen jewels...

A Mataiea princess--Fatata te Miti--by a quartz blue sea, the rolling breakers, arriving, leaving...

Analect 2.384x

12 November 2008. Gray morning with pearly fringes. (Can a morning have fringes?) Isolate crow, minding his own affairs on school yard black-top just across the way...

Agitando Pañuelos, echt Argentino. The image of Carlos Romaní, holding forth in the Confitería Jockey Club, Martinez, Buenos Aires. Both theatrical and sincere in the very same breath. Here transposed to a veranda in Palermo ... Could be anywhere, really, the combination of languid air, burgeoning plants... Hands held at one's side--or in a pocket--evidence of a confident command--leisure and purpose... a touch more the former...

Cantando esta zamba repiqueteadita...

Analect 2.383x

10 November 2008. Sun at dawn, clouds moving in. Yesterday: a solitary crow hopping from curb to street--morning light. Or Lila and her husband, sitting together side by side on low Nepalese bench (its legs still wrapped in shipping paper) positioned at the very front of their doorway...backs to the sun, drinking tea...

Warszawa, 1968, appearing miraculously under the name Hanna Ptaszkowska. The Galeria Foksal, with Henryk Stazewski propped on the floor, holding forth to a gathering of young people. That's Hanna herself, just behind, and Prorok (Prophet), the leader of a group (the only group?) of Polish hippies, his rabbit pelt vest--an investment in the era. Unknown girl to his right, too tall for Gabryela. Likewise the gaunt type leaning on edge of door. Myself, with pipe, tip of rapidograph pen, drawing...

Spotkanie...

Analect 2.382x

7 November 2008. Pitch-perfect cerulean sky, deepening...

Voices and stories, a need to tell. Metapixels and carburators--where is the best deal? Or the cows, along a road, rumbo al pozo...

Making their way towards the well...

--Alondra de mi nido...
--Regocijo de mis días...
--Se le conserve el Señor...
--Es de besar sus huellas...

Mi corazon...

Analect 2.381x

6 November 2008. Autumn sun, golden blue sky. Sounds of the avenue, the humming machines, aready.

Yesterday's waves--of smiles, of tears. A thousand young people charging up and down nighttime streets. "I just had to go outside... A big crowd came round the corner--hundreds of students, everyone running--and I said to myself, well why not...?"

Meg, downstairs, early yesterday morning: Yes it IS a beautiful day... Ehren, too, once a marine, weeping...

Analect 2.380x

5 November 2008. Cold night, sun-filled dawn. Faces across the globe, tears of possibility...

Always the balances, the kermess fairs--midnight songs, tables spread wide in late afternoon light--David Teniers has them gathered, from all surrounding villages, dancing...

Balances. Nadezhda Mandelstam: hope against hope. A home, the train, the wind. A century lived, in the bone. A future, too, but in the telling...

Miraglos...