Red Egg Jewelry

Red Egg prayer beads and jewelry

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Voy a nombrar las cosas


Voy a nombrar las cosas, los sonoros

altos que ven el festejar del viento,

los portales profundos, las mamparas

cerradas a la sombra y al silencio.


I’m going to name things. Sonorous

mountains that look upon the festival of wind.

Deep passages. Shutters

closed in shade and silence.


Y el interior sagrado, la penumbra

que surcan los oficios polvorientos,

la madera del hombre, la nocturna

madera de mi cuerpo cuando duermo.


And the sanctuary within. The half-light

that marks dusty practices.

The wooden image of a man. The 

wood of my body when I sleep.


Y la pobreza del lugar, y el polvo

en que testaron las huellas de mi padre,

sitios de piedra decidida y limpia,

despojados de sombra, siempre iguales.


And the poverty of the place. The dust

in which are traced the footsteps of my father.

Stone places clean and resolved.

Empty of shadow. Always the same.


Sin olvidar la compasión del fuego

en la intemperie del solar distante

ni el sacramento gozoso de la lluvia

en el humilde cáliz de mi parque.


Without forgetting the compassion of fire

in all the elements of solar space. 

Nor the sacrament of rain falling

into the cupped hands of my garden.


Ni el estupendo muro, mediodía,

terso y añil e interminable.

Nor that stupendous mural of noon.

Blue and polished and unending.


Con la mirada inmóvil del verano

mi cariño sabrá de las veredas

por donde huyen los ávidos domingos

y regresan, ya lunes, cabizbajos.


With the immutable gaze of summer

my beloved will know the paths

where Sundays flee like lovers.

And return, Mondays now, downfallen.


Y nombraré las cosas, tan despacio

que cuando pierda el Paraíso de mi calle

y mis olvidos me la vuelvan sueño,

pueda llamarla de pronto con el alba.


And I’ll name things so slowly

that when I lose the paradiso of my street

and oblivion turns her into dream

I’ll be able to call to her suddenly at dawn.


                         — Eliseo Diego, 1949





Café Tal


The hermit is the one who's always home

Beso negro, cappuccino, latte. 

Chocolate ultra concentrado de 3 onzas. "Todo un tocamiento obsceno."

and yet one travels in order to be visited 

...along alleyways and through plazas.

Diego Rivera was born here in Guanajuato.


Diego Rivera, "Flowered Canoe," 1931 

"De todas las toneladas de tinta que se han escrito en mi contra o a favor de mi, lo que realmente soy es un guanajuatense," él dijo.

"Of all the tons of ink that have been written against me or in my favor, what I really am is a Guanajuatense," he said. 

And so it's good to be on the road again. Especially together. 

"Keep your pilgrim self alive," we told ourselves years ago.

But it's not so easy. 

Because no matter where you are (at home or on the road) the task requires disentangling.

"Coddiwompling" is the expression Debi likes to use.

And for the picaresque, though there are waystations and adventures...

...there's no clear end.







The steeple of Saint HilaireMore left of Combray than I had imagined five years ago in winter when the town of Illiers had seemed so tawdry in comparison with what emerged from the taste of a few crumbs of madeleine in a spoonful of tea.

A novel doesn't translate what's real into fiction.

And the most important books must teach us how to read them.

An object's not inert. It's not even an object.

And everything that's real is a relationship—not a phenomenon.

Aunt Leonie's house.

The bell on the gate that only Swann would ring.

The clapper that would rattle when anyone else would enter.

The siphon coffee system Uncle Adolphe loved to use.

The hawthorns along Swann's way.

 "The autobiographer relates what he has lived through; the novelist lives in order to relate."

                                                                         — Jean-Yves Tadié, Marcel Proust: A Life.


M. Vinteuil's along the Guermantes' way.

À la recherche du temps perdu.


Chartres (once more)

We've been to Chartres before.

But in that winter month five years ago the labyrinth wasn't open.

And this time it was.

At first, I was a little irritated. Some people were breezing across the labyrinth inattentively—in a hurry to get somewhere else and seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were jostling right through others' prayer.

But it was as if each mindful step was clarifying itself nonetheless.

And soon those of us who were walking

...were walking the labyrinth together.

In a labyrinth sometimes you seem to be moving in the opposite direction from another—and then the next moment you're face-to-face. When you seem furthest from the center, at the next turn you might find yourself entering it.

Nor in that winter five years ago did the cathedral put on a cosmic light-show.






It feels like we're back on our long pilgrimage again.

With places and friends so beautiful and dear that it always feels too unbearably soon to leave them.

"Keep your pilgrim-self alive," we reminded ourselves five years ago when we were heading homeward.

And we're reminding ourselves of that wisdom once again.