The wind raced through the clearing, sounding like an oboe as it passed through the branches of the trees at the edge of the nearby stream. It was Fat Tuesday, but it seemed like any other day. Outside, laughter and voices in the distance.
My mood swung between an inexplicable anguish and joy as I deciphered my here and now, lulled by this ageless land into a false sense of belonging as I watched the sun’s rays sparkle on the leaves and add a golden luster to the grassy fields. And what am I doing now but recalling, with great uncertainty, my brief stay in these godforsaken mountains to the south, where water flows abundantly, where loneliness strips away the soul, where time opens cracks in igneous rocks, and where flat-topped hills emerge from the dense jungle like primordial monoliths jealously guarding the cosmic egg inhabited by those who have not yet died or been born? A world lost and found in God’s eye by the beloved children of the mority palm and the tapara tree who pray in their language that their lands be not taken away, their water not poisoned, their houses not demolished. 6by Emily EvelethĮl Catire threw his weary body into a hammock, Victoriano lay down in another, and I rested in mine, amused by a parrot that was winking at me from one of the beams of the open-air hut. Lynne Tillman's This Is Not Itby Nell McClisterįrancine Prose's The Lives of the Muses: Nine Women and the Artists They Inspiredby Victoria Ludwin Jenny Lynn Penberthy's Lorine Niedecker: Collected Worksby Matthea Harveyįrederic Tuten's The Green Hourby Eric Kraft Múm's Finally We Are No Oneby Eric David JohnsonĪrt Cuba: The New Generation by Holly Blockby Rachel Kushner Rebecca Miller's Personal Velocityby Susan Shacter The Chinese Sunby Arkadii Dragomoshchenko
L'eau étrangèreby Silvia Baron Supervielle Steve Reich and Beryl Korotby Julia WolfeĪ Man Ugly, Strong and Proper, or Narciso Reyes, You Are My Destinyby Sandra Cisneros
0 kommentar(er)
