Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing to be so little reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and fairly judge them. — Rainer Maria Rilke
I. The Drain
Vanishing Time (VT) = seventeen years
My father went to an art house cinema in Caracas that used to be teeming with young people. I wonder if that is what he sought there, the youth slipping from . . .
The wooden Chinese junk, with its carved crew, used to sit on a small table in Grandfather’s bedroom, before his death. It had been a gift from his friend Burlingame when they were both young. Burlingame had brought it back . . .
My face is small, compared
to the rest of me,though maybeothers experience my face
as large compared to their
own faces or those
of their precious
brats, whose hats
are too big for their heads.
Small is good, it’s
been . . .
