[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library, and, yes, once again I’ve been a very, very bad girl, but Blogger is still not letting me upload pictures, and I'm feeling a tad petulant.]
Regardless of what else I’ve been up to, I’ve been thinking a lot about flamenco lately, which makes even less sense than most of the rest of what I’ve been up to.
Not about those marvelous skirts, terrific makeup or smoldering eyes, but about the other part, the unseen, undecipherable part.
About duende, of course.
Other than Lorca, very few people have ever been silly enough to take pen to paper on the subject, and that is a good thing.
We know it coexists with dark and death, refashions old forms, captures one’s body. Yes. But if you’re lucky, and you know it’s not just about flamenco, then your body waits for it the way it waits for a lover.
A whisper, a blinking through hair falling into eye, foot scuffing.
Shadow and wind, mixed into one.