Thursday, February 11, 2016
By a very great margin, I admit,
I would be found in the loading
dock of the Pierre with Gérard,
for breakfast today, before the
window seat at a Harlem eatery.
What I'd sacrifice in gastronomy,
economy, and sartorial bonhommie,
I'd recapture in an extraordinar-
ily superior plane, for slouching
with my elbows. The glazed quad-
rant always turns out to be more
than the linens deserve.
But I caution myself against mis-
take. The spectacle of democracy
in America is heading promptly
into markets of ignominy as a way
of life, where the sane Party has
to summon the confidence of the
profitably abandoned. At long last,
they have the genius to ask, What
is in it for me, if I should dream
of trusting you?
The conversation, after all these
years of lullaby, has turned upon
how to live, not whether one is
welcome to a life, now plausibly
protected. The conversation has
turned to working for a decent
living, and not, as the Tories
so bitingly say, getting it, as
if snatched from their flesh.
There is a candidate, competing a-
gainst the figure on the right, who
has cherished the expediency of de-
nouncing discrimination. But this is
not an election about discrimination.
So advanced is the joyride of neglect,
that any number of people, across ev-
ery sliceable spectrum, and possibly
anxious to vote, are animated now.
It is an election about what one can
give to one's family, of the loveli-
ness of this world; and it is an e-
lection, about why they may not have
a decent breakfast.
I want to know, myself, what that
extremity must be like. Under the
alternatives to this breakfast in
Harlem, I may well find out. I do
not fear sharing, as confiscation.
I fear corruption as confiscation.
I fear hunger for anyone; I fear
maldistribution more than malfeas-
ance, and I want a child to know -
a gorgeous orange.
dejad el balcón abierto.
El niño come naranjas.
Desde mi balcón lo veo.
El segador siega il trigo.
Desde mi balcón lo siento ..
Federico García Lorca
Al Sharpton & Bernie Sanders
The New York Times
New York, 10 February 2016
Migrant farm worker
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
The Waste Land
382 - 384
Monday, February 8, 2016
Have you taken the walk around the
lake at Wellesley College with your
sweetheart, after a Sunday at the
MFA and profiteroles at the Ritz? I
think you should. The place is beau-
tiful, which never hurts; and she is
very likely to be finer than bright,
cultivated, which can sometimes hurt
but tends rather to inspire, instead.
I know, I did it, I was betrothed.
Hillary Rodham Clinton was a sophomore
at Wellesley College, when she woke up
one morning in April to see this photo-
graph in the Boston papers. She had al-
ready been drawn to the Civil Rights
movement for African Americans, she had
already been weaned from Republicanism
by the last war we would ever fight in
the plain view of citizens, because of
But I think, this is a sight one would
carry in one's heart, as the most friv-
olously unjustified abuse of talent re-
siding in gender, one would ever need
to see, to devote oneself to equality.
Here, despite no clear rule to the con-
trary, Kathrine Switzer is assaulted
and detained by officials of the Boston
Marathon, simply for running with men.
Things happened in this American life,
to everyone I've ever known who went
through it then, which spawned tremen-
dously paradoxical later careers. No
one I know, can surpass the paradox of
a marriage with Bill Clinton. Everyone
I know would leap to extract a damsel
from it, not to be patronising, but to
I am very doubtful that Mrs Clinton
conscientiously capitulated to cyn-
icism on the scale we associate with
but she denies against every visible
rubric, that she is a caricature now
of her youthful idealism. Possibly,
she has never grasped the distinction
between remedy and progressive change.
Possibly, her sympathy for the runner
has diminished her awareness of the
passer-by. Imperceptibly, perhaps, a
blizzard of policy term papers and a
fine sense of justice have condensed
into the only two planks visible in
her platform, anymore: I deserve it,
and, you can't pin anything on me.
Yet, what supports this collapse is
a picture she saw in her youth, in a
beautiful refuge from Boston. Who
would not cling to that spectacle of
outrage, to suffer the life she en-
to assuage her deprivation of remedy?
But is a Presidency an office to seek,
to soothe oneself?
Now youth, betrayed in Boston still,
have heard about the bucolic lake.
Male or female, together, they know
and thrive in their equality, already.
Many do not possess those propulsions
of possessivism, which so well channel
her archaic grievance, enough to ac-
cept the mercies of the rushing gorge.
portraitist of Washington
Sir William Grant