A thin shelf of shadow graced the side of the pavilion in the plaza’s center, across from a sixteenth century Catholic church. The rest of the plaza seemed almost empty, except for cascades of burning sunlight.
Yesterday was a day of errands. But errands with a sensuality that is at once new and old. It is not that of home and has not yet become so omnipresent as to pass into the background, uncommented and unnoticed.
This morning the news seethes with concern about the resurgence of the Shining Path guerrilla movement. In the eighties and nineties it created a civil war that led to more than thirty thousand dead, although to be sure the government was probably responsible for most of the dead.
July 2003 This
morning the sun is sharp. It slices through the shadows and flattens
people's faces like a scalpel removing excess. Though it is early, the light cuts through shadows and the
dust of night in broad rays with a quality only found at high altitude where
the atmosphere is thinner and the air dry. I always forget how the sun pierces at this altitude,
until I return. When the sun is out the temperature rises, when shadows
prevail the air is around freezing. You live the constant contrast of
light and shadow, hot and cold, but not in the abstract. Instead, like the
sharp sun, they are felt viscerally.
Since last I wrote on this blog, much has happened. I shall detail it briefly, but more I just want to recognize the chunk of my life and writing that the posts before this represent. It is much later and the blog, thanks to Google, still lives and--to my surprise--attracts readers, so I shall add to it.