Thursday, March 31, 2011

Met-lect 61 (Pato de Torrente)



31 March 2011. Drawing, sadness, drawing.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Meta-lect 60 (Pilpilén)



29 March 2011. Sun, spring...

A young couple in the copystore--preparing elaborate map of the Appalachian trail--they're planning a walk, six months or so, Georgia to Maine. A Southerner, Glen by name--"from east of Nashville," and his lady friend, who whose home would seem to be here--Gathering of the Tribes, just down the street... Their excitement about the venture, animated by subtle gestures back and forth--a standing on the toes, a movement of the hand...

Her drawings--Mr. and Mrs. Fox--their same young selves, simple lines, now imagined with foxes' heads--quite natural, I'd say--appealing as well. A kind of truth--

His wiry hair, blond, pulled back, down vest, bright eyes. A gentleman (he calls me "Sir"...) in long grey coat, on a tall horse, sixteen hands, dark brown--the year 1863...

Monday, March 28, 2011

Meta-lect 59 (Ánade Real)



25 March 2011. Gray skies over San Pablo... Beginnings of new leaves on center island elms.. Silhouetted against clouds to the west...

Mauricio at forty--today is the day. An open-faced sandwich (Maya Gold) in colored magazine paper wrapper from on top of Frank's ancient toolbox... The words "read" and something else, half hidden--all inviting. Plus a box of raspberries, red, still a few of them left... Later--hummus, cucumber and tomato on whole wheat--the day's request--and a package of vegan potato salad (the good kind) with bits of peel still attached, in tasty sauce--plus special salmon salad development--green onions, capers, mustard, balsamic vinegar, ginger, finely chopped parsley...pepper and black sesame seeds...

Afternoon--re-reading the Analects, text to the drawings we've been choosing. The one of a man with his back turned, an older gentleman, one arm lifted high. Unfinished, as it needs must be. Mr. Copes, yes, who'd come by the copy shop each month, offering to do the windows-- his bucket and squeegee...a handful of newspaper... Greg's voice, in welcome, "Yes"-or, sometimes, "Not today, Mr. Copes..."

Mallard on the River Plate--Ánade Real--an exotic species, alight...

Meta-lect 58



24 March 2011. Rain heavy and determined, all morning...

Time...too rushed, too rushed, begin again...

The constancy of a duck--quiet water reeds, transposed to the outskirts of Chascomus. Laguna Verde, Mansilla's world...another place, another time.

Reach for this...

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Meta-lect 57 (Caúquen Real)



23 March 2011. Rainy morning...

Window onto the street, a tapping sound--Lee's face, wizened now, bundled up in hood...

Writing--a life, the paintings and the years... Precedents and parallels... Corot, Bonnard, Vuillard. Albert York...

Hopes as well...

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Meta-lect 56 (Quetro Volador)




22 March 2011. Clouds in the west, piled high...

Woman in black Saturn SUV, just outside, frowning deeply, hand to her
forehead. Her two young daughters in back seat, one of them in tears...

Category mistake, and a white handkerchief--panuelito, as in the song.
Tokens of affection.

The Quetro Volador, ready to fly. Patagonian coast. A pair of them--
sisters, too, perhaps...

Monday, March 21, 2011

Meta-lect 55 (Pato Capuchino)



21 March 2011. Clear with billow clouds...more rain due...

The beautiful East Indian girl on sidewalk at bus stop in front of copy shop window, early--her banana for breakfast, then the blackberry, checking messages. This morning's animated conversation with some party unknown... Her right hand--adamant gestures, up and down, in time with the points she seems to be making. Forceful, more logic than anger. Wedding band on the third finger of her left hand, gem stones--diamond, zircon...

Pato capuchino--original meaning of the word--a little hood...

Friday, March 18, 2011

Meta-lect 54 (Atajacaminos Tijera)


18 March 2011. Gray and rain, steady...

Atajacaminos tijera. The scissor-tailed Nightjar. Small speckle-breasted creature seated quietly on a fence post. La tranquera. Waiting... Waiting but for what...?

Large girl with straight blond hair and emminent build, tiny white flower skirt (mauve) and black tights, seated with her legs ajumble in copystore chair--yellow Del laptop askew in her lap, intent on image from a fashion spread--two equally young models in stylish garb, red shoes, red scarf, set against tans and warm grays. World of charm encounters the world of commerce...

Reactor number four, fuel rods exposed to the air, burning...

Save us all...

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Meta-lect 53 (Jacana Común)



16 March 2011. Even gray skies, moist air, muddled yellow ball of sun somewhere behind...

Late at night, in the rain, San Pablo Avenue, pulling in on a quick vector to curb in front of studio building, planning to drop off the morning's supplies. There under under the doorway soffit, a figure asleep in damp plaid bag, gear close all around. He looks up, seeing my approach, scraggly red-brown beard, brows the same, sharp eyes not without anxiety/suspicion. "Just stay put, I'll step over over...," reaching forward with key in hand to unlock the swinging glass door. Inside dark, I leave my things, take the one banana on bead-woven Puerto Rico tray, and a single golden apple--handing them to him as I leave. He reaches up. "Will that be good," I ask? Cracked voice, "Well, I can eat the banana, but I can't chew the apple." Opens his mouth to show me the four remaining teeth...

"Do you have fifty cents so I can wash my clothes...?"

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Meta-lects 52 (Cauqúen Común)‏



15 March 2011. Gray skies, dark morning, warm bank of lights across the way in sheltered 7-eleven. Passing for home...

Gram's birthday, at eighty, just now remembered. Her slender form on porch of Huntington Park bungaloo, house dress, bright eyes behind small glasses, smiling. Family gathering. I'm carrying an armful of roses--just back from two years in the east--Warszawa...and she begins to sing. "Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła," a tune that ony the two of us will know.

Another land, another time...

Monday, March 14, 2011

Meta-lect 51 (Pato Cucharo)



14 March 2011. Dark night, rain in the morning. Thoughts about Japan.

Northern coastal town. Sendai. First heard the name from a woman in Yao-Ya San market, in El Cerrito, maybe a decade back. Package of dark brown miso, quite thick, salty, with pronounced texture. Distinct red characters set it apart there on the cooler shelf, to the right--easily recognized, even when not understood. I would take it to the counter. She would smile. "The best...!"

This weave of meanings...

Friday, March 11, 2011

Meta-lect 50 (Pato Criollo)



11 March 2011. Sunny morning, like there never was...

The Pato Criollo, friend of man. A Moscovy duck, first seen on the sloping terrain of a Sonoma Coast motel--set of small wooden cabins, from the 1930s, arranged around a big U, wild reeds growing in the middle, hiding a pond. And a Moscovy duck, of course. Place where Leonard and Carol used to stay, years before--they told us once. Owners a young couple from Los Angeles--they left for this northern coast...low light, land running down to the sea.

Big waddle, unexpected shape of head. Red garble. Dictinctive.

Like the town itself. Moscow. Where all roads lead. Last night: map flashes onto flat-screen display--wrapping around the earth, names of provinces and cities, spelled in Cyrillic. Nine time zones, west to east. Brest Litovsk to Kamchatka, and all points in between...

Trans-Siberian...

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Meta-lect 49 (Pato Maicero)



10 March 2011. Gray or sun, can't decide.

Pato maicero--her brown head and striated back. in a sea of river grass, camalote blossoms floating on the Paraná...

El Tigre, January 1961. That would be mid-summer. The delta, meandering banks, lush gold-green, sweltering palms, fronds low to the water. An open boat with rows of seats, canvas awning, polished wood. Worn brass fitting or two. The captain--tipo del campo, a river man...

Sounds like...

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Meta-lect 48



9 March 2011. Pato argentino. we'll have to look into the source of this one--pato colorado, maybe, with its velvety reddish gray crown, blending into white below, on a marsh that Hudson himself might have known. Vicinity of Chascomus, southeast of La Plata by a few miles, but "pura pampa..." Rereading his stories, that truthful edge, sometimes dark--an acknowledgment of something real...

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Meta-lect 47 (Pato Picazo)



8 March 2011. Gray morning, rain on car...

Situationist Manifesto. Ken Knabb's face, reappearing, after 30 years. A book on Rexroth, the politics of poems. "Relevance..."

As with the ducks of El Tigre. Pato Picazo, deep red eye embedded in velvety black. Invisible waters, brown and gold-green, slow-moving, from the Iguazu.

The Rosy-billed Pochard...

Monday, March 7, 2011

Meta-lect 46 (Ariel)



7 March 2011. Mild sun after meandering rain, evening streets glistening, yellow lights of cars...

Songs from afar, a milonga-- Olvido Adentro, and the Argentine case for existentialism. Ariel perched on velvet chair, attentive. Words matter, my schematic tramslations even, each line. Story of Jorge Cafrune--his willingness to sing, no matter the cost. Small casket of earth from the Norman coast, resting place of General San Martin--he would carry them on horseback from Buenos Aires to the province of Corrientes. Struck down by truck, in the night, only miles from home...

Ariel's questions., stories of a bicycle trip over the Pyrenees, into Spain...

Leopoldo Lugones on the metric structure of classical Spanish verse--octosílabos and the like--and how these forms became the basis for lyric song. Water birds. remembered, pato sirirí, Denrocygna viduata...where Sirirí is the local name. Something from the river--and the peoples who lived on her banks...

Paraná...

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Meta-lect 45 (Peludito)



2 March 2011. Gray rain gray...

Less chilly last night. Natasha in white wicker chair, impossibly fluffy mound of tortoise-shell fur in the surrounding dark. Small pink tongue (one remembers) protruding at her special moments. Reaching up with head to be fondled, which she likes.

And the armadillo? Large family of dry land creatures, residents of the Argentine south (and all of the Argentine is south). On the gray landscape of Chubut, wind-raked from the west, head on to the sea. A coast without a harbor--or even an interest in a harbor. And why so? Scene so vividly described by Güiraldes, in Don Segundo Sombra--a tale of gaucho life in the modern period. The riders deliver their herd of cattle to an estancia near the sea--of which his young hero has only heard, and is desperate to see. But for some reason there's an omen attached--as he soon discovers--salt marshes in which the sand teems with voracious crabs...

Better this small dry-land friend, bristly hair at every joint (and there are so many), a close up revealing the pattern of ancient scales. Forces of life, well-rounded, rising to the occasion...

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Meta-lect 44 (Pichi)



1 March 2011. Skies clear, moving to gray?

La Noche del Peludero. José Larralde's song... Caminito tierra y yuyo...

This morning, sitting in chair by bookshelf, singing, the Russians to my left, China on the shelf behind, Argentina just alongside, almost within reach--Lucio Mansilla, Una Excursion, Siete Platos de Arroz con Leche, Lugones, Fray Mocho...from Buenos Aires, years ago--in the bookstore Ateneo (Santa Fe 1860)...

An old zamba-- Blanco y Azul, and a question of whose voice. (Blanco y azul, era el vestido, con que pasar te vi...) "Dame tu pañuelito, mi vida, yo te lo lavaré...con lágrimas de mis ojos..." The man's voice? At that moment, Genevieva comes in, quietly, through front door, Hoover in hand, and pauses, on my request, to help with a key word... A question of whose voice... and the meaning of "...sequito te lo daré..."

"I will wash it for you, your little handkerchief, and when it's dry, give it back to you..."

Meta-lect 43 (Espinel)



28 February 2011. Mid-day already. Up till late--Blanco y Azul, a
zamba in the old way, sung by a woman with beautiful even-toned alto
voice--untrained, a bit weavery, but very sure. Una voz del campo...
Her cadence also in the old style--unembellished, each accent
corresponding to a beat of the heart. Like walking, in the classical
way--a promenade--you hear something of bel canto here--a
procession--but also the gait of a horse. Un sordo, leading with the
left... Alazán...

The song. Something understood by a rider (and it was on horseback,
uniquely, that one could traverse the pampa)...or by someone whom the
horseman might love...

* * *

Jinete--an ancient word, from the Moors. From the Berbers, originally,
riders of another kind...