T here is nothing like peer review to infuse in you the fear for writing. One has to take the plunge one morning and write for no other reason but the dew. Whatever this is it is not autobiographical: things do not have to be avant la lettre; things can mean something else not referring to the speaker, nor to you, dear reader, of all people. She did not marry him- she was someone else, and he was simply her invention.

It is a question of the sky. That moment in the morning when grey gives in to the brightness of blue and white and green and red, and the birds sing hosannah! allelujah! hail the coming of the light! Rejoicing is a question of letting yourself go. Accept the movement and the flowing of all things, from light to darkness, and after infinite periods of boredom, sadness or stress, back to light again; it is really a question of looking out.

“Ni siquiera la muerte permanece” -José Emilio Pacheco, citado por Mario Benedetti   Ni siquiera la muerte se deshace de este polvo. Cae sobre cada superficie de esta casa como la lluvia cae cada noche de estos días en que vuelvo a este lugar en que vivió y murió mi padre. A lo único que de niños aprendimos a temerle fue a que se cayera el techo, sí, sobre nuestras cabezas.

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I found some of my work whilst rummaging through an old hard drive. I might post of the stuff I found. I had forgotten they existed.

When Patti and Robert met they slept covered by a blanket of stars. Art did get them, and in the end they let anyone who wasn’t them sing the song of their innocence. Flowers and birds, hunger and passion, gifts and symbols: a black bow for Baudelaire, glass beads for Rimbaud, a poem song for Janis, a career for Jimi, the paying of respects for Jim, a modest necklace from Persia. So many others decided what would happen to them.