Looking at each other, she and I felt slowly and anxiously like intonations dispersed by time. I imagined myself surprised to see us, but she was always busy, burrowing into the sand eating beef and dry biscuits.
“Italy's earth holds the voices of its ancient poets deep within itself, where it is purest. Walking on the soil of its fields, passing through parks where the water sparkles, going over the sands of its small blue ocean, I felt as if I were stepping on diamond-like substances, hidden accumulations of crystal, all the luster stored up by the centuries. Italy gave European poetry form, sound, grace, and rapture; she pulled it out of its early formlessness, out of its coarseness dressed up in sackcloth and armor.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
Anne used to go to thrift shops and find boxes of old plastic torso parts. She would reconstruct them into human shapes and give them names. They became her friends, people she could talk to. I remember her dressing them in fancy hats, and laughing while winding their bodies in barbed wire.
“A work of art’s impact makes its full impression at a single reading. Its meaning fits within a specific cultural space, inside or outside the institutional tradition. This may be why many critics will argue over the aesthetics. But the imagery is entirely clear, swinging like a fragrant bough, to touch, to feel.” (page 396)
I have an amazing immune system. I can eat anything! A dazzling white light surrounds me, which I think helps produce antibodies. Reading poetry helps too. If I walk slowly, with calm circumspection, I feel as if I’m living in a sea-shell, meditating upon the most recent Festival of Dionysos.
Many years ago I owned and ran an independent taco stand in the center of the city. My only employee worked her ass off, always. She was also a busy mother. It could have been a different experience except that our relationship did not include the study of writhing bestiaries and ancient Siberian scripts.
“. . . How many works of art . . . There's not enough room in the world for them my more . . . They have to hang outside the rooms . . . How many books . . . How many little books . . . Who can read them all . . . ? If they were food . . . If, during a wave of great hunger, we tossed a salad, cut them up, poured some dressing on them . . . We've had it . . . We're fed up . . . The world is drowning in a flood tide of books” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
It has never been determined how she took 12 years to build the doorway. (A loose nail moves, and, at any rate, you know the truth now).
“In particular, whenever a work of an artist includes obvious references to the literary history and literature of an ethnic minority, it is more or less rigorously aesthetic, that is to say, articulate of a strategic framework, and not genuinely recalibrated to formal aesthetics or conservative politics.” (Book of Poppins, page 503)
running the whole length of the horizon...