Every day for the last three days, self has been driving north — to Berkeley, to San Francisco.
BART went on strike on midnight, Friday. The traffic has been horrible.
The 2nd annual Filipino American International Book Festival has wrapped. Self went Saturday and Sunday. It was exhilarating, but also a tad stressful.
So many books! So little money!
It was grrrreat seeing: Linda Nietes. M. Evelina Galang. Angela Narciso Torres. Luisa Igloria. Karen Llagas. Cecilia Brainard (who moderated panels on two successive days). Tony Robles & family. Edwin Lozada. Barbara Jane Reyes. Oscar Bermeo. Rashaan Alexis Meneses. Penelope Flores. Michelle Bautista. Jean Vengua. Gayle Romasanta. Aileen Ibardaloza-Cassinetto.
Now, self must rest her weary and over-stimulated brain.
This evening, self discovered that Goldilocks is moving from their Westborough location, to some other place in South San Francisco.
In the September Vanity Fair is an article on the painter Balthus and his last muse, a girl who began modeling for him at 8. It is rather shocking to see the painter’s Polaroids of this girl partially unclothed. But there was nothing at all prurious in his interest: his wife and daughter were fully aware of this relationship. To which self can only exclaim: How very, very European! Such a level of tolerance would not be possible in America.
She decided to re-new her subscription to The New York Review of Books, for two more years.
In the issue of June 30, 2013 is a poem by Zbigniew Herbert, translated from the Polish by Alissa Valles. Self only has time to replicate the first half:
FROM AN UNWRITTEN THEORY OF DREAMS
In memory of Jean Améry
The torturers sleep soundly their dreams are rosy
good-natured genocides — foreign and home-grown
already forgiven by brief human memory
a gentle breeze turns the pages of family albums
the windows of the house open to August the shade of an
apple-tree in bloom
under which a fine brood has gathered
grandfather’s open carriage an expedition to church
first communion mother’s first embrace
a campfire in a clearing and a starry sky
without omens or mysteries without an Apocalypse
so they sleep soundly their dreams are wholesome
full of food drink fleshy bodies of women
with whom they play erotic games in bushes in groves
and over it all floats a never-forgotten voice
a voice as pure as a spring innocent as an echo
singing of a boy who spied a rose on the heath
memory’s bell awakens no ghosts or nightmares
memory’s bell repeats its great absolution
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.