On my way to market,
passing Marienkirche, "im Schatten der Platanen" (sham Mycenean )

passing salty Punks w/ dogs. Standing on fountain wall clutching Sterny.
Piss smell, misty distances. Dunstig auch im Kopf.

"wrest from me the palm of beauty"

Truly, take it by force. Not as difficult as you might think

"wo durch Blumen der Cephissus rann"

If I had found you there, Geliebter, how differently I would have embraced you.
Noch ein grauer Tag, not made for embracing anything.

"wo die Herzen Sokrates gewann"

Winsome walks of erstwhile presence
A grey marble tomb, as big as a living room. "It's simply what I deserve"
How would I have embraced you 50 years ago, 100 years ago, 250 years ago?


You, you smiling youthful man, you walk with a certain blindness, a strength-- your long pants flare out at the bottom, your lenses hide your eyes. But the sun itself is in hiding today. What is an overcast spring day to you, what does it mean? What is a joyful German meant to think underneath thick gray clouds?

"eso es lo que mata tu amor"

I'm not very unhappy today, but I would say that Berlin is a dead city, a city of the dead, comprised mostly of deadly spectres, more dead than any city I've ever seen. This does is not to say that it is dull here; there is a vitality but it is the vitality of ghosts. A cemetery is full of people who are mourning but sometimes also people like myself and Julien, who walk on the grassy paths, green grass thriving from the flesh of dead humans. We are not overcome with emotion or regret. Indeed, we sometimes laugh. Look how big that tomb is.
Berlin is a cemetery for many things, such as: communism, fascism, youth cultures of all sorts. The corpses of German Literature simply float in the river around Museuminsel, bloated and bobbing. They float by, unnoticed by young Germans, sitting in hammocks on the riverbank with tiki torches, palm trees, drinking Beck's to salsa music DJ'd from a laptop.
The obsequies of arrogant 80s culture have been dutifully carried out.—In other words maybe it is now left up to Americans to be Germanists.


The [PUNX] continued to grieve and muse
    poor [PUNX], secretsmiling [PUNX]
    berooding the banks awynto the river.

"Jetzt aber sitz ich unter Wolken (deren Ein jedes eine Ruh hat eigen)...
und fremd erscheinen und gestorben mir Der Seligen Geister."


—in Düsterkeit klirren die Fahnen.

S.C.d.l.C. --> Oaxaca; Walk where. Just walk, walk until lose safety.
13 blocks or so, then turn right.
A woman exits her front door a few paces in front of me. I don't want to scare her, walking tall on dark street. Conversely, she doesn't seem to notice me at all. This is a main street that she lives on— It is hard to surprise a woman who is expecting the street.
    Another right, and a deeply satisfying burning smell wafts from somewhere. A Spanish burning, across dry hills, the puebla of Soto, old Roman in Rioja. My father roasting a red pepper right on the gas burner, drinking a beer, making us dinner. "I'll do this math and then we'll eat." (Same smell in Toniná, and driving back to San Cristóbal as dusk fell on green hills, a smell essential to the landscape, that burning.)
    A stray dog up ahead (earlier, with Conejo, her friend's scraggly white pup, "no toco los perros"). Strays in Chiapas all seemed completely amiable. Check if its tail is wagging to see if it's happy. This one has no tail to wag.
    No matter how tan I become I'll always have my height to give me away. At least I have the decency to wear pants (urban Mexicans, well, Chilangos at least, don't wear shorts), and to keep my camera in my bag when I'm not using it. And to take a photo shamefully, covertly, realizing that what I'm doing is equivalent to theft, cultural misinterpretaion/fetishization, and rape.
    I don't give a damn about the Beatles or NOFX, Quentin Tarantino or Daniel Johnston, just like you don't give a damn about cumbia villera. This is one form of culural discomfort, an unremovable barrier. You don't like Americans but you like American movies, music. I don't like either but I like John Adams. I think that's difficult for you to understand. Cumbia Villera is way more subversive, innovative, and exciting than Bouncing Souls. To me, at least--

    

 
Benito Juárez as a boy shepherd. The rational principles— Round up these beasts, keep them quiet, don't let them wander. Don't lose one.

lo mejor tipografia

Solito. Wandering in the dark with my bag. (Which, according to Beckett makes me a woman) (I disagree, knowing also how a woman can give up when abandoned) (arms crossed, legs crossed) (After being abandoned I begin to wander in the dark with my bag).
    Tinoco y Palacios. The grey darkness of being. Crespo. The grey darkness of being. Morelos, Hidalgo. The never abolished threat of grey darkness. Las Casas, 20 de Noviembre. Under the never abolished of the grey darkness of the One. Where the One bears the torture of its own identification.
    The— Tinoco y Palacios, this time as Two. Imagined multiple: "I've waited for you for maybe four years." (Waiting, but not immobile) (Wandering in the dark after affirming the lack in all except that which I await). Four years, Colonia La Soledad.
    The inaugural figure of the two. "We drifted in among the flags and stuck."
    Zócalo: Let me in. (Pause)





Whilst living among the German people I learned how easy it was to be punctual. Should have said, "I'll be there at exactly once y media and no matter if I'll never see you again I won't wait more than a media hora for anyone." Fuck it, I'd rather eat at the Fondas anyway. Cocina económica, eso es lo que me gusta.



Mercado 20 de Noviembre, a place where hunger is a precious commodity, not to be squandered.

Aimless way to live ... bags and beds ... sensuality + sentimentality. Wandering in the darkness of sensuality and sentimentality, with a bag, renouncing both, looking for the guarantor of the sensible night.
    Sings Alain, "the rustling night of leaves and plants, stars and water." Yes, thank you— these things. Nights authorized to rustle, stars dripping, sky water. The 2nd Nocturne.
    "Magic is epic and it's also sex and Dionysian mists and play."
    The opening of the waters.

My name? Solito Sabroso.





    Mexican pines sun-dappled, large needleballs like a porcupine or a firework, crowding together. Under the sun, these needle's ball needleball's needle-balls, let's just say pine-tufts, create a shadow-shape of a diffused circle. This creates a subtle visual effect, the green diffused circles of pine-tufts mixing with the diffused shadow circles then there's the spiky golden grasses, positively parched under the blazing sun. I will always think of: Mexican pine seen through bus window opiate vision.
    —"passing the winter famously"
    —personal Mexican chess record: 1 win, 5 losses.
    —My last two days in Oaxaca were overcast, with clouds hanging low between dry hillocks most of the way to Mexico City.
    —Two American hippies in Benito Juárez airport one wearing trekking gear and rhythmically shaking vanilla pods, another wearing poncho and blue jeans, spitting air through a fake indian flute. I fantasize approaching them: "Hey dudes Mexico is a pretty spiritual place isn't it?"



© 2009 solito sabroso & 1976 TORTEC® tortilla machines

Returning from Museum of Anthropology on metro— sitting across from me: a young man with Indian features whose rotund skull and placid yet stern countenance reminded me of the mammoth Olmec head sculptures.
 

Next to him sat a man with distinctly Spanish features: sharper nose, angular face, expression of anxiety and unrest (A Spanish-looking head just wouldn't look right sitting heavily under jungle canopy, rooted to the ground-- One would expect such a sculpture to move on its own accord, capsize with an expression of agony, roll down the mossy slope in search of a parking lot or locutorio). As I imagined this graceless Spanish monument the train slowed to a stop, whereupon I was presented with the miraculous sight of a real Olmec head sculpture, through the window, exactly between these two varied types of human head, like those I had just seen at the museum, resting on the train platform. It took me a moment to realize that the vision was real, and that the head was a replica being employed as a decoration for the metro station, and that in appearing magically before me, between these two Mexican men, it meant to say: "don't count me out, I'm the real thing," or " I only I can pull this shit off, rooted to the ground so peacefully providing human characteristics to the landscape."

X.E.U.G. 970 Khz A.M. Radio Universidad de Guanajuato

Habitación Económico, 10 dollars a night, tile floor, small shower/toilet (faint reek of sewage), framed picture of some ecclesiastical detail or other, hung almost apologetically. Window with randomly alternating clear and frosted panes, opening onto back street, entrance to underground tunnel. Roar of trucks from tunnel-mouth. Tuning my quartz radio to Radio Universidad de Guanajuato. Beatifically I sip tequlia blanco from a plastic cup. Johann Christian Bach, tunnel roar, and soft cluckings of two palomas above my window.

Conejo.
-Has visto Conejo?

RB: three legs of human table



Conejo stands me up or is 30 minutes late.
    I don't wait more than 30 minutes for anyone, regardless of cultural attitudes towards punctuality. Somehwat morosely, I drank some yogurt and read Bolaño.
    Finished Book 1 on the steps of Teatro Juarez, then returned to my habitacion feeling accomplishment, light hunger, resentment, longing, and maybe weariness. After resting for a moment I went to the 6 peso/hora internet cafe to find waiting in my inbox a notice informing me that I had been accepted to the UPenn Comp Lit doctoral program with a full fellowship guaranteed for five years. Though I've sung "Odara" out loud while walking in public before, I've never sang it quite as loudly as I did while heading directly from internet place to the bar where Conejo told me I could drink mezcal.
    (one mezcal natural ... Pancho enters and orders one de naranja ... he recognizes me from bar before ... I buy him and myself both another naranja ... seeping gregariousness and jubilation from every pore ... older Mexican with veritable chorus of empty bottles before him teases me, in good humor ... buys me another naranja ... I buy one more for Pancho ... three mezcals to the face ... Pancho and I make wobbly exit into full light of mid-afternoon, three mezcals to the face ... sunglasses, "tienes hambre?")

Malinalco, ancient stairs to sacred spring.

"Chalma, Chalma"— Mexican pine bus to Chalma. Trucha shacks dot piny hillscape, rural Mexicans on four-wheelers, chorizo verde drying in sun as if opiate vision. Mexican pines. Combi to Malinalco. Offered ride to Toluca. Bus back to DF Norte. Split-decision overnight bus, 14 hours to Chiapas. Worth mention: overwhelming humidity when stretching my legs at Veracruz bus station, sitting next to me Enrique, young evangelical priest who shakes my hand heartily, with hearty wafts of cologne, prays solemnly before devouring chilaquiles at next rest stop, 5 am awake to bluing mist and palmed hills, what on earth are you doing hacking away with a machete on the roadside at 5 am?

Palm and pine Chiapas

Deep in tierra de Zapatistas. Palm and Pine, Palm & Pine, Pine and pines, and palm and pine. Pine and palms together. what a hill.

Later, driving back: heavy dusk, falling cool over Zapatista hillsides. Heavy green, fresh heaviness. Cool pathways. 13-odd Chiapaneco youths wearing rubber ghoul masks, some bearing clubs or sticks, a roadblock of sorts. In middle of dark mountain road, what do they want? Just to bang on the hood a bit and give an extranjero a bit of a scare, probably.

Toniná , solito: Tan lindo que no puedo creerlo.

A waking dream. Felt like trespassing. Lack of authority, also dream-like. Knelt down in front of deity, apologetically.



Sundazed in Toniná

Climbed to top tower, sun dizzy on top, circling hawk. Jacaranda growing out of stone structure. Sole security guard still napping in shade. Hawk still circling above my head.

Providence Athenaeum 1972 or so (from Alain Resnais' Providence)

Chapultepec: Famous groves of hoary cypresses
"And the dark came swirling down across his eyes"
(Strange dread before leaving.)




In airplane, standing in aisle, waiting for bathroom, I see a woman in a window seat (typing near-slip: a window in a woman seat) a middle-aged woman in a window seat is sitting with her eyes closed. She is holding a torn page from a magazine against her chest, so that the top edge of the paper reaches the base of her neck. The page is an advertisement from the American Airlines in-flight magazine, depicting a gold necklace— a large pendant hangs in the middle of the page, with lengths of gold chain extending to the two corners at the top of the page. Held against her chest in this manner, an idiot or an animal might think the woman actually owned such an extravagant object.




Earlier: A window seeded in the woman, a woman seated in the window seat next to me was reading the biography of Peter Jennings. Something about her appearance made me think that she, too, was a professional newscaster—maybe for a small local station. Covertly, acutely peering, I noticed one chapter titled "Going It Alone," presumedly about Peter Jennings' switch from news-team membership to solo-anchorship. (anchor ship)-- I wondered if the woman seated next to me had the strength to go it alone.





Two easy solutions:
1) Turn it up
2) Disinfectant

Ate a menu del dia at a capriciously chosen comidor in Doctores, "Restaurante de La Luz de las Artistes." After a mildly enjoyable meal under these artists' light I experienced mild postprandial panic (due to consumption of questionable sweetstuffs), and was set off at a brisk pace in search of a sanitizing glass of mezcal. It being Monday, not much was open, and after unexpectedly long search I purchased a small bottle of poor mezcal for 70 cents. Clandestinely I drank from this bottle in the park, listening to the music of the islands on my headphones. I actually refrained from turning it up, having indulged in one easy solution earlier in the hour.




Instead I boarded a microbus and was carried to the entrance of Chapultepec park. I found here mostly disappointment, no famous, hoary cypress groves, or, hoary cypresses I could admire only from afar, from the bottom of the hill, like a common peasant.
By a distant fountain, toga'd Mexican youths reenacted a Greek drama before a handheld video camera. Obviously I felt a certain camaraderie with this display of nostalgic longing.

RB: "provincial intellectuals, or, deeply self-suficient men"



Grafitti by giants, Centro

Walking to the Sevilla metro station this morning, feeling quite good due to the music of the islands, abundant sunshine, the fantasized adoring gaze of four American female college students ("que guapo eso"), and the state of having one's laundry being done by someone else at that very moment, I almost walked underneath a ladder propped against a wall glistening with a fresh coat of yellow paint. I felt that if drips of this yellow paint were to fall on my corduroy jacket, I would simply continue on my way, resigned to and perhaps pleased with these problematic drops, my sticky flourish.
(blue tlacoyos ... despite pretensions and shameless malleability... "un juego de poder" -- sagt man wirklich das? ... enjoyed the sexual energy of the room ... some of the only sexual creatures who truly value intellect ... good crew/ 3 brazilians, 2 argentinians making up for the obligatory australian ... teotihuacan easy warmth ... heavy sun ...  otherwise detestable activities made potable by ...)





Walked around UNAM like a visiting professor. Saw next to nothing.

 

[ "Human features seem to be going from me. I am driven to canter over meadows, and for food grass is my craving.."  ]

("Out of dithyrambics into heroics"):

Popol Vuh - Oh wie nah ist der Weg hinaß

Winter calls for certain soaring, heroic harmonies; heroic in order to withstand the bitter cold, soaring in order to skim weightlessly across snow's glimmering surface like a bird (without crushing it, spoiling it, transforming it's crystalline perfection into muddy, lethal moisture, like a common peasant's boot). The bitter wind at your back not your face, guiding your perfect arc over treetops.

No heroic trudge--
Like one's final chinese checkers piece, left behind as the land bridge disappears.
Fell asleep in a shallow snow-hole.
*trudge*

"False is that word of mine—the truth is that thou didst not embark in ships, nor ever go to the walls of Troy."

Wind sure is howling right now--

your hero,
Phaedrus Duvelius

    I know I've been away from the "mixtape game" for "a minute," so I thought I would make up for lost time by compiling this massive MP3 mixtape that clocks in at just under 3 hours. Honestly, I've been obsessively curating this thing for months; starting from my week of rural seclusion in Connecticut, drinking whiskey and listening to music in front of a roaring fireplace, continuing on through wine-water soaked evenings of post-grad-school application torpor, until now, my days of wintertime housesitting hermitage in Providence.
    The mix concerns itself primarily with music made during the 70s in South American, North American and European countries, generically focussing on rock, prog, psych, prog-rock, psych-synth, synth-prog, MPB, smooth-Brazilian, rough-Brazilian, smooth-prog, prog-folk, hard-psych, loner-rock, samba-prog, and so forth.
    Guardian-style "spotter's badges" for excellent recommendations have been earned by the princely phantom at mysteryposter, Tony Coulter, Jake Gorchov, Steve Villereal, Museo Rosenbach, Mutant Sounds , and Prog Not Frog.
    The mix is available in one 3 hour MP3 from one of the links below. If you use the moment when the vocals first come in during the Doracor track as a middle point, the mix can be split into two equal 90 minute tape-lengths. If anyone makes two C90's out of this, well that's just delightful.
(In case you get lost in the playlist, I've marked the minute in which the song starts, for speedy reference.)

GOODBYE, MY LONELINESS: 3 HOUR MIXTAPE
> Download from: [RAPIDSHARE]; [ZSHARE]; [BADONGO]; [MEGAUPLOAD] .

01 Sheriff - "Transfixion Wait-in" from Sheriff (Italy/USA, 1979) [0"]
02 Leland - "Goodbye, My Loneliness" from This Is My World (USA, 1976) [2"]
03 Jesús Figueroa - "Las Sombras" from Magica Fuente (Argentina, 1974) [7"]
04 Aquelarre - "Aves Rapaces" from Brumas (Argentina, 1974) [11"]
05 Brave Belt - "Scarecrow" from Brave Belt (Canada, 1971) [15"]
06 Gilberto Gil - "Tenho Sede" from Refazenda (Brazil, 1975) [20"]
07 João Donato - "Naturalmente" from Lugar Comum (Brazil, 1975) [24"]
08 Caetano Veloso - "Odara" from Bicho Baile Show (Brazil, 1978) [27"]
09 Winfried Capteina - "Problemzirkus" from Winfried Capteina (Germany, 1983) [34"]
10 Merrell Fankhauser & HMS Bounty - "Girl" from Girl/I'm Flying Home (USA, 1969) [37"]
11 Trizo 50 - "To Love Anybody" from Trizo 50 (USA, 1974) [40"]
12 Bobby Weinstein & Jon Stroll - "Sweet Cream Ladies" from Cook Me Up Your Taste (USA, 1970) [43"]
13 Bendegó - "New Freud Pode" from Bendegó (Brazil, 1979) [45"]
14 Lô Borges - "Todo Prazer" from Nuvem Cigana (Brazil, 1982) [47"]
15 Mosaik - "Bjrnstorp" from Mosaik (Sweden, 1982) [50"]
16 Gianni D'Errico - "Delvish" from Antico Teatro da Camera (Italy, 1976) [56"]
17 João Donato - "Lugar Comum" from Lugar Comum (Brazil, 1975) [62"]
18 Stalk-Forrest Group - "Ragamuffin Dumplin" from St. Cecilia (USA, 1970) [66"]
19 James Gang - "Thanks" from Rides Again (USA, 1970) [71"]
20 Day Of Phoenix - "Cellophane No. 1" from Wide Open N-Way (Norway, 1970) [73"]
21 Doracor - "Antiche Impressioni (Parte 1)" from Antiche Impressioni (Italy, 1999) [79"]
22 Los Deu Larvath - "Coneguda Causa Sia" from Coneguda Causa Sia (France, 1979) [91"]
23 Robertinho de Recife - "Jardim da Infancia" from Jardim da Infancia (Brazil, 1977) [94"]
24 Swift Rain - "The Laplander" from Comin' Down (USA, 1969) [97"]
25 Aquelarre - "Mirando Adentro" from Brumas (Argentina, 1974) [101"]
26 Lô Borges - "O Vento Não Me Levou" from Nuvem Cigana (Brazil, 1982) [107"]
27 Michel Madore - "Stanley" from Le Komuso a Cordes (Canada, 1976) [110"]
28 Amon Düül II - "Sleepwalker's Timeless Bridge" from Wolf City (Germany, 1972) [114"]
29 Leland - "I've Got Some Happiness" from This Is My World (USA, 1972) [119"]
30 Bobby Weinstein & Jon Stroll - "The Cat Was a Junkie" from Cook Me Up Your Taste (USA, 1970) [123"]
31 Trevor Swadling - "Lady Blue" from Endless Surprise (Australia, 1982) [125"]
32 M.L. Bongers Project - "Escape on a Light" from Pacific Prison (Germany, 1978) [129"]
33 Tellah - "Continente Perdido" from Continente Perdido (Brazil, 1980) [131"]
34 Jean-Philippe Goude & Olivier Colé - "Piège" from Jeunes Anées (France, 1976) [136"]
35 Bendegó - "Dança do Punhal" from Bendegó (Brazil, 1979) [139"]
36 Gilberto Gil - "Aqui e Agora" from Refavela (Brazil, 1977) [141"]
37 Tenin Sedibe & Yoro Diallo - "Mogoko" from Bounya Ye Watti (Mali, 1990) [145"]
38 Mekondo President - "Bebela Bella" from Feelings From Above (Gabon, 1988) [151"]
39 Ginbae - "Untitled" from Ginbae (Japan, 1976) [156"]
40 Psiglo - "En un Lugar un Niño" from Ideacíon (Uruguay, 1973) [165"]
41 Michel Mouline - "Les Cordes de la Mer" from Chrysalide (France, 1978) [169"]
42 Fit & Limo - "Je n'ai pas de Plan" from Im Blickpunkt (Germany, 1982) [175"]

Rreplay this

Replay it again-- feel the extent of my seasonal gruessen.

...

Let me offer you two more things, 

What would be interesting to you? What gifts do you need or would you appreciate.

Chances are you may appreciate seeing a photograph of a Bolshevik actress that Walter Benjmain fell in love with.

This will be the first gift—

1. photo of Asja Lacis:

   In relation to that, I'll also present three pictures of a Swedish girl who is looking confused and troubled as Robbie Robertson and Bob Dylan offer her boyfriend money and a jean jacket in exchange for her in the film Eat the Document.

2.

Gifts of girls, by Emre.

Else
Elsa Kidane
perch'i ended Harry
Birthday Eritrea
Eritrea
Else Kidane
Elsa, Emir
Emre

Emre, Emri of M
Emre, brave boot
Brash cleat under floodlight
Emre eroico

Aziza, aziz.
Perch'aziz
Lio Dire
Dire Emre

Aziza—Tess Bouché, tears...
Tears slip out from underneath heavy eyelids
Aziza, Historica.
Emir with rose sash
His mother, her wrinkles.
Emre's mother's jewels.

Delft and a milk pitcher.

    Nymphs, Nymphs, Nymphs so lively...
        Fresh daughters of waters,
        Our games pure and fluid

"Happy Valley," logic puzzles, notebook, PENS.

            Nymphs, Nymphs so lively,
Our vain frolicking sets a-quiver the reeds :

Venezia and vintage Pyrex.

            Alas! Fresh daughters so lively,
It's not much to enjoy only the fires of the Sun :

A Knight in armor led through a stone portico by monks, ramblin' books and shaving creme.

            Nevertheless, I feel beautiful!...

"Hoyle's" rules of games.

                 And I, even more beautiful!...

Alcoholic (comedic) fiction.

                In vain!...    In vain!...

Brazilian fiction (from-the-grave), hand creme, PENS.

Our shoulders of silver, the waves of our hair,
Are these the playthings of the light alone?

Like a spear among other things I lay among my kin.
In other words, holidayysss.
Meine Schwestern denken an mich und weben,
(this is dedicated to Boyd Cage W., mein Zukunftneffe)
—Ich allein bin fern und fortgegeben,



I alone am distant, given over to the living room: textual chauvinism over songs of forceful jubilation. Thinking through my companions, thinking of the Goncourts' journalistic semi-failures, January 1852: "Thinking of his subscribers' ball, Villedeuil had accepted a job-lot of two hundred bottles of champagne as part of the loan from his money-lender: the wine started going bad, and so it was decided to turn the ball into a private party at the office. All the Éclair's acquaintances were invited: this added up to Pouthier, an architect, a picture-dealer, a few other nondescript individuals asked along at the spur of the moment,a couple of tarts picked up in a dance-hall—and Nadar, who had just begun a series of caricatures for our review, and who took it into his head to open the ground-floor shutters and invite the passers-by in to help get rid of the champagne."

cvratores vniversitatis colvmbiae
noveboracensis collegi olim regalis
omnibvs et singvlis ad qvos praesentes litterae
pervenerint salvtem sciatis nos

nathaniel evans davis

baccalavrei in artibvs

"The idea of a popular art, like that of a patriotic art, if not actually dangerous seemed to me ridiculous. If the intention was to make art accessible to the people by sacrificing refinements of form, on the ground that they are 'all right for the idle rich' but not for anybody else, I had seen enough of fashionable society to know that it is there that one finds real illiteracy and not, let us say, among electricians."  

IN quella parte

dove sta memoria

Prende suo stato 

Saudade: Pilar [misheard from Piedade, in actuality O O my L. Silveira], in tigerprintèd lycra, with sharply crglacking castanets above exposèd ringlets of oily black. Fanta Naranja. BOOOOOMER chewing-gum. O O O, Pilar; our family's guide through minor Rioja polis. My small fingers greasy pulling out of silver bag some Spanish puff-or-other, while before me, inky curls swishing before flash of wet tooth, pinker lips, down, down, tiger'd hips. Clack!

"A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag,"

Coro: Signore Bassotto, leave us our canzoni, leave us our cantor Austors, prego Signore!

"a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes."

Coro: "Jajajajajaja"

And it would be 10 weeks in Aubeterrian donjon. Not long before: this cantor-one, loved-one, sunk shreds of cottony bread into cold wine at the inn— "where they set tables down by small rivers, and the stream's edge is lost in grass."— The subsequently brought broth brought soothing warmth to tum of one. Subsequent entering knight, of not so commanding height, brought heavy hand with swift resolve to greasy shirt collar of cantor-one. "Austors! [that is, if the coin fell otherwise] I come bringing news of..." and so forth until newly brought news brought heaviness in over a dozen chests. Aforesaid chests so heavy as to simulate strength, overturned black cauldron on aforesaid short-Sir in order to preserve the heady atmosphere of postprandial summer canzone, sure to be missed— whereupon flashed short Sir's long sword (a thoroughly ridiculous utensil for eating soup, it must be said) prematurely severing all argumentation thereby.

  Later— Au donjon, awake each night, asleep every day. An empty cell— "How clearly here can I think! How clearly come the images, as if delivered amid flow of blood, direct from heart to finger nib." And Austors there in room alone sat. ("Pilar!"— )

And wills man look into unformèd space

Rousing there thirst

that breaketh into flame.

Simple millet-wine delivered from sympathetic guard (assumèd audience of this-one's canzoni one summer night by river), slowly sipped under moonlight, reclined on discarded mattress, solely thinking of she to whom he previously solely sang. Now sang he silent, in truth with more passion, and more perfection, to dear lady. Truth, sir, in perfection— sang he soundless, full-minded, humble, pure, bodiless, full-spirited. Every second, clear as day— O my lady!

FUOR di cholore essere diviso, there, beyond colour, essence set apart,

Asciso mezzo schuro luce rade, disjunct mid darkness light giveth forth,

Fuor d'ongni fraude, beyond all falsity,

dice dengno in fede, worthy of trust,

Ché solo da chostui nasce merzede, that in him alone is compassion born.

IMAGINED it cannot be if never known, and doth not move and turneth not for whim or delight, nor yet to seek proof/knowledge, non gran o poco. That is, He-Amo. (Amo, chi ergo sum)

(amoroso) "Venuto a me!" — Compassion born in him, within him alone, in vast empty chamber, from plastic chair rises, lets book fall to parquet, few quick steps across room, now back foot propelling, front flip onto mattress, discarded in corner, of vast empty chamber.

 Io! 

            virtu—

INMAGINAR nol puo hom che nol prova

E non si mova

E non si aggirj

  per trovari giocho