Border Ball : JOEL TAUBER in front of THE OTAY MESA DETENTION CENTER

JOEL TAUBER

The Otay Mesa Detention Center troubles me. I walk there everyday from the Otay Mesa Port of Entry as part of my 40-day pilgrimage. Guards slowly circle the Detention Center in vans. They stare at me. I meet their gaze. They tell me that I have to remain on the sidewalk. The large private prison company that owns and operates the Detention Center, CoreCivic, maintains the dirt pathway that surrounds it. I cannot film, or even stand, on this pathway—or on the very large parking lot where the multitude of Detention Center employees park their cars.

I stand on the sidewalk and bear witness. I toss a ball, repetitively and meditatively, contemplating the expanse of concrete “pods” holding the detainees. Three layers of barbed wire and electric fencing separate me from the people locked inside. I cannot see them. I cannot talk with them or play catch with them. I cannot offer food or other forms of direct aid.

I try to imagine what it must be like for the detainees—especially those who are forced to remain in the Detention Center for years on end. Refugees. Dreamers. Most have no criminal records whatsoever. Treated like prisoners. In jumpsuits. Living in concrete cages. Breathing in terrible air from the power plant across the street. Suffering, according to multiple reports, from physical and sexual abuse. Medical neglect. Contaminated and insufficient food. Forced labor.

I toss the ball and I think about how my paternal grandparents survived the Holocaust. How my grandfather’s brother died in a labor camp. How I am a descendant of immigrants who came to this country because they believed, like I do, that it is a welcoming place that values people from all ethnic backgrounds and religious beliefs. A compassionate country that finds homes for refugees, that cares for those that need help.

I’m still shocked by the march in Charlottesville, so close to where I live with my wife and two young boys. Klansmen without hoods, shouting openly about killing Jews and African Americans. I’m frightened by the rise of racist rhetoric and the rise of hate crimes. And I’m terrified by white nationalism. But, I have hope nonetheless. I continue to believe in our country. I’m confident that we will rediscover our values. So, I toss a ball and declare:

Walk with me along the border. Play catch with me in front of the wall. Share some hot dogs and salsa. I don’t care what part of the world you’re from. Let’s root, root, root for teamwork. If we don’t find some, it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, we’re out at the old ball game.

On Thanksgiving, a guard stops his van and tells me that he sees me everyday. We discuss the Detention Center, the Border, the Wall. The value of compassion. A friend who has walked with me that day adds his thoughts. Then the guard asks: “we need this place, right?” I thank him for asking such an important question. He thanks me. Then the guard resumes circling the Detention Center in his van. And I start walking back to the Port of Entry with my friend, as the conversation circles over and over again in my mind.

 

DECEMBER 18, IMPEACHMENT DAY

by Rosanna Albertini

Only as an invisible fairy I walked with Joel Tauber. Hot dogs and salsa not the best for me. But this online presence allows me to send my contribution: an immigration story to the artist who is at home by now, with his children and wife.  Christmas is certain, the future not so much. Whatever happens with this presidency, it’s useful to remember that history is not a ballroom. American fears are the same as in every other country in the world. Maybe the eagle has lost some feathers, maybe the country has “unbuttoned his waistcoat and offered a morsel of his liver to the bird.” Take a look! “Come, come now! ! It’s nothing but a conscience, at the very most.” (André Gide, Prometheus Misbound, 1953)

My grandmother was fourteen when a big ship brought her from Northern Italy to the land of hope. She traveled alone. An uncle had a drugstore in Pittsburgh and needed family workers, which probably means unpaid. The winter was so nasty the girl got chilblains in her feet, which were only protected by rubber boots. Business was bad, the girl was sent back after one year. On the verge of WWI in her village poverty was endemic. For a while the family sent her to Switzerland to become a baby sitter. She only had to cross the lake. 1915. Once the war exploded, fears made people irrational, ignorant of Switzerland’s neutrality. The girl was called back to the village. To work was then even more inevitable for the lack of men, all soldiers. The girl found a night job in a factory nearby, the Cucirini Cantoni, to produce thread for sewing. Big machines, long nocturnal turns: a second of distraction; the four fingers of her right hand were gone, completely cut off. The thumb remained. She was seventeen. The fearless creature inside her body didn’t flinch. She trained the left hand to do everything needed, married a painter, became his studio manager, after his death organized exhibitions with other artists’ widows. Had two boys and a daughter who died before birth. I have her name. 

ROSA MASERATI ALBERTINI  with her father and one of the little sisters.

The only photograph in which she has two perfect hands. Around 1911-1912.

 

R.B. KITAJ – BOOKS AND PICTURES : A SILENT ROMANCE

R.B. KITAJ, Untitled (Heart / I’ve Balled Every Waitress in This Club), 1966 collage on paperboard , 32 x 22 in © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy of LA Louver, Venice, CA

R.B. KITAJ – BOOKS AND PICTURES : A SILENT ROMANCE

 

R.B. KITAJ, I’ve Balled Every Waitress in This Club, 1967 color screenprint, photoscreenprint and collage on machine made long-fibred Japanese paper, 22 7/8 x 32 5/8 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy of LA Louver Venice CA

 

Variations around an LA Louver exhibition

 R.B. KITAJ

Collages and prints, 1964-65  Nov. 2019-Jan. 2020

by ROSANNA ALBERTINI

 

GERTRUDE STEIN:  Oh yes I do like romance that is what makes landscapes but not flat land.

Flat land is not romantic because you can wander over it and if you can wander over it then there is money and if there is money then there is human mind and if there is human mind there is neither romance nor human nature nor governments nor propaganda. 

 

Looking at my young tree this morning, I saw a leaf committing yellowcide. Pessoa screams in my ears the expression is beautiful and he wrote it. But I love it so much that it comes up in my brain by itself, one of the myriad words floating like plankton on my attempt at shaping some perceptions. As I think, or write, I’m always chewing sounds and images as if words had a taste. Or if they were birds’ songs barely kept back by dry branches behind the leaves. Books become foliage at my eyes, each of them sings a verbal music which was a music in the writer’s mind painted with meanings in search of a story. In pictures or paragraphs what makes the text/ure is the author recording and finding place and disposition for the vague, movable, unreliable impressions printed by life on our nerves. Yes Pessoa, we make the dressing for the salad of life. 

Trying to meet R.B. Kitaj through his own words I found an artist content with being modern. He walked through the human comedies and Art’s efforts to become “contemporary” by increasing the distance between the hands and the artworks: “mirages”, as Duchamps called them. Kitaj kept his “wayward and melancholic” nature out of society. He was attracted by the solitude of painting. Reading Cezanne’s letters and seeing as an ideal composition The Tempest  by Giorgione. Feeling the inside of his head changed by books.

I was upset reading about the violent reactions to his 1994 exhibition at the Tate Gallery in London insulting him as a pseudo-intellectual. Plenty of documents about this on line.

Reality is, Behemoths are hard to kill. First was the World War, then the Bomb and finally the majesty of modern culture, strongly rooted in books. The marketplace became synonymous with freedom, also freedom from books. If an artist hides in his studio surrounded by books he becomes a Behemoth. 

He stopped breathing in a plastic beg. 

Here is his voice, and a few books transformed by Kitaj into prints, each of them a landscape, not a flat land. Many of his ideas are dear to me and support this blog as the poles under a peer. Their feet in the sand, and the head in the sky.

R.B.KITAJ. Men and Books, 1972 color screenprint, photoscreenprint on dark cream Canson Mongolfier paper 29 5/8 x 21 5/8 in. © R.B. Kitay Estate, Courtesy of LA Louver Venice CA

R.B. KITAJ

The very widespread myth that one’s personal life is irrelevant to the painting. To me, this is one of the least attractive (and most boring) ideas in the art discourse of my lifetime. I believe that a painting is an autonomous thing and at the same time an extension of oneself, a vital organ that got away. 

R.B. KITAJ, Waiting for Lefty, 1974 Color screenprint, photoscreenprint on green double-dipped laminated crushed long-fibred Japanese tissue on unbleached tissue, 36 7/8 x 25 1/8 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy of LA Louver Venice CA

sometimes my pictures, feeding on art and books, seem to choke from overeating, over-reacting to better painter and writers crowding my walls, piled up on my floors

R.B. KITAJ, Madame Jane Junk, 1972 color screenprint photoscreenprint 27 1/2 x 40 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate, Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

I’ve written some short stories or prose-poems for some of my pictures. They have no life apart from the picture. They illustrate the picture the way pictures have always illustrated books in our lives.

R.B. KITAJ, Boss Tweed, 1972 color screenprint, photoscreenprint on dark brown Canson Montgolfier paper, 20 1/8 x 13 in. © R. B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

Robert Lowell’s poetry helped lead me to think an autobiographical art of painting was not only possible but deep in my bones.

R.B. KITAJ, Importing Women for Immoral Purposes, 1978 color screenprint, photoscreenprint on gre-green Barcham Green handmade Dover paper, 25 1/2 x 20 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

Art and adventure are always confused in my life and I can’t get them sorted out.

R.B. KITAJ, The Spirit of the Getto, 1978 color screenprint on buff Barcham handmade Dover paper 16 5/8 x 10 3/8 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

Well, first of all I feel unbalanced most of the time. I guess my art, for what it’s worth, may be largely about this lack of balance, in the disorders and refusals which dislocate or animate it.  Dislocation seems to be an aesthetic mood in my pictures…we never seem to know ourselves well enough.

R.B. KITAJ, On Which Side Are You, ‘Masters of Culture‘? 1975 color screenprint, photoscreenprint on Gold Flitters paper 23 1/16 x 17 7/8 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

“Do you feel not at home  in London?”  Asked Richard Morphet in his interview for the Tate Catalogue. Kitaj replied: “Home is one of those concepts like love and God…which inspire both yearning and mistrust. … I love romance and fantasy. This whole goddamn retrospective is about romance, which is my truest home, and my art lives there with me.  Sometimes I feel at home in London and sometimes not when I get homesick for various fantasies. …

R.B. KITAJ, Jot’em Down Store, 1972 color screenprint, photoscreenprint on dark maroon Canson Montgolfier paper 20 x 14 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

Home is an affair of imagination for me, of which my pictures are both poor reflections and my most hopeful shots. But you have detected something: a sense of loss? Making odd or even wrong choices in life, as in art, becomes an aesthetic.”

R.B. KITAJ, Men of Europe, 1972 color screenprint, photoscreenprint on deep violet Canson Montgolfier paper 29 5/8 x 21 5/8 in. © R.B. Kitaj Estate. Courtesy LA Louver Venice CA

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Fernando Pessoa, Livro do Desassossego, The Book of Disquiet, Translation © 1991  Alfred Mc Adam, Exact Change Edition, Cambridge MA, 1998

Gertrude Stein, The Geographical History of America, Random House 1936, The John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore and London, 1995

R.B. Kitaj, Unpacking My Library, Joods Historisch Museum, Amsterdam, 2015

R.B. Kitaj : A Retrospective, Catalogue Tate Gallery 1994. “Kitaj Interviewed by Richard Morphet”

Border ball : JOEL TAUBER IN FRONT OF THE WALL

WAITING FOR THE geese/swans

by Rosanna Albertini

I see Joel in trouble and I like him there. Because his journey on the same road back and forth for 40 days has the same distinct property of a religious ritual,  including the dress of a baseball player, the big glove and the white ball. If such is the case, the roots of his journey are as ancient as those of the migrants’ peregrination, driven by their overconfident heart despite all the obstacles that a human mind can conceive in advance. 

A primitive desire moves them both toward an uncertain goal, against safety or reasonable solutions. All the Indo European fairytales contain the same kind of quest: go, says the little sister to her brother, and bring me the fountain of the silver water. The boy goes, and helped by the vision of an old man, he succeeds. Now the girl wants the white parrot, who can only be grabbed when his eyes are open, which means he is asleep. If the boy fails, his body will be petrified. And so he is.

Ahead of themselves, the questers do not know what will meet them during the quest. The artist could feel the spell spread by the wall and have a moment of stillness, hoping that the white geese/swans in the sky would lift his soul.

I’m translating this contemporary journey into the words of a timeless story: 

“my geese, little swans, 

take me on your wings…”

Wait for those that are coming behind us” answer the birds.  Same request to another flock, and same answer, “Wait for those behind us.” At this point the artist prays. He becomes exactly like the hero of another story, about to die in the castle of nothingness. After failing to hit the target twice, he closes his eyes and whispers: “May no one miss the goal of his life as I have done!” It is then that his arrow hits the white parrot. Old interpreters knew the white parrot was nothing but his soul, and the journey was spiritual.*

I don’t have any doubt that this is the nature of Joel Tauber’s quest. Collecting  stories from migrants, border patrol officers, passing people, he builds the wings of flying bodies for visions or pages. And he breaks the spell of the stalled hopes: “Now, tell me who you are now, give me your heart wounded by offenses.”

He is building a future memory that will not say: “I can’t pick you up, ask somebody else.” It is simple, as Viktor Sklovskij wrote:

A person can’t lift herself by herself alone, and she asks to all her forebears who thought and dreamed, those who got indignant, those who have been reprimanded; the person talks to them, when reading [or watching a movie]: bring me with you!” 

Animals disappeared, words changed, but the big electric machine of human self awareness, a thinking machine, shakes the sky with multiple wings, humans are part of that. A writer is the apprentice among humans. Writing is impossible without working, without reading, without looking at the flocks of geese and swans that, population after population, school after school, fly over you and in the end will bring you on their wings.”** 

  • Marie-Louise Von Franz, Individuation in Fairy Tales, Shambhala Publications, Boston & London, 1977, 1990.
  • Viktor Sklovskij, C’era una volta,(Zili-byli )Trad. it by Sergio Leone, Milano, Il Saggiatore, 1968, 1994.

 

By Joel Tauber

I’m continually confronted by the Border Wall. I walk alongside it everyday, while making my 40-Day Pilgrimage from the Otay Mesa Port of Entry to the Otay Mesa Detention Center, and then back again.

The Wall seems most imposing to me from the easternmost point of my 7 mile route before I head north towards the Detention Center. The towering metal barricade marches seemingly forever east, past the horizon line. I stare at The Wall, but I cannot touch it. I face it behind a second shorter metal fence and a restricted buffer zone of highly patrolled land.

I stand at this spot, tossing a ball and thinking about The Wall. I interview people about the border and about baseball, and I toss a ball with them. I talk to Border Patrol agents nearby. Then, I toss a ball to myself some more.

And I wonder. What does The Wall do to us? Psychologically? Ethically? Spiritually? What happens when we emphasize, so clearly, the boundaries between us? When we heighten them with steel, rebar, and concrete? Does The Wall make it harder to recognize that we’re all connected to each other? That we’re all on the same team?

I continue to toss a ball, over and over again. As a ritual. As a meditation. As a prayer. I think about our teammates who are suffering. The hungry. The homeless. The refugees who we turn away. And all those we lock up in detention centers.

Then, I declare:

Walk with me along the border. Play catch with me in front of the wall. Share some hot dogs and salsa. I don’t care what part of the world you’re from. Let’s root, root, root for teamwork. If we don’t find some, it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, we’re out at the old ball game.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Border Ball : THE OTAY MESA PORT OF ENTRY

NOVEMBER 17

“The artist is the servant of need.”

MY WAY OF WALKING WITH JOEL TAUBER, keeping my mind on the road.  RA

Finding a few sensible words to remind that Joel is an artist, and his journey through the border is an art piece. The manners of expressing truths change more than the weather. They must change. The old nest, writes a poet, must be recreated.  

William Carlos William walks with us right now. Surely sun and heat are implacable at the Otay Mesa Port of Entry in the middle of the day. The flow of people, in which the artist does not isolate himself, tries to ignore the weather. Stories and game break the cartilage of the border, the inevitable scar tissues. History moves, no one escapes. What’s freedom? It’s an old symbol we take for granted. It was the main symbol when America became the promised land from those who escaped Europe since the beginning of nineteen hundred, and before and after, hoping to leave misery and oppressions behind. 

Today, maybe, it’s good to remind the poet’s precision, suggesting that

“Liberty is the better word. It was liberty they needed, not so much liberty for freedom’s sake but liberty to partake of, to be included in and to conserve. Liberty, in this sense, has the significance of inclusion rather than a breaking away. It is the correct sense for the understanding of America. … But to have liberty one must be first a man, cultured by circumstances to maintain oneself under adverse weather conditions as still part of the whole. Discipline is implied.

But freedom remained the commonly accepted and much copied cliché, implying lack od discipline, dispersion.

The real character of the people is not toward dispersion except for a temporary phase for the gathering of power, but to unite. To form a union. To work toward a common purpose — to resist the weather.”

(William Carlos Williams, Against the Weather – A study of the Artist, 1939)

by JOEL TAUBER

I’m getting ready for the 17th day of Border-Ball: a 40-day pilgrimage along the U.S. – Mexico border. I start each day at noon at the Otay Mesa Port of Entry in San Diego, California. It’s wonderful to see so many people cross the border, even in the middle of the day – both into the U.S. and into Mexico. There are distinct pathways for trucks, cars, and pedestrians; and each of these pathways are always busy.

I find the fluidity of movement at the port to be extremely beautiful. The constant flow of people from so many different cultural and ethnic backgrounds reminds me that the United States is a place of immigrants and diversity. And, so, I’m often moved to declare:

Oh, say, can you see, our country’s gorgeous dream: an endless field of green, where everyone can live and play? Our star-spangled banner yet waves, over the land of immigrants and the home of us all!

I spend most of my time at the Otay Mesa Port of Entry on the pedestrian bridge, tossing a ball. I introduce myself to people I meet and ask them to share their stories, experiences and thoughts about the border and baseball. Then, we play catch.

The borders between us disappear when I’m listening to their stories. And our connections deepen when we play catch. It’s amazing to me how, even after sharing incredibly sad and heartbreaking stories, people start smiling and laughing once we play catch. All of a sudden, we are friends, playing and laughing together.

We are all on the same team, after all.

People thank me. And, I thank them for connecting with me and for giving me strength to continue my long 7 mile journey each day: from the port of entry, along the wall, and up to the detention center – and then back again.

JOEL TAUBER : the BORDER BALL begins

The Tree is gone!!! Replaced by concrete

The Tree is gone!!! Replaced by concrete. And, I’m beyond devastated.

At the same time, I’m trying to focus on all of the Tree Babies that are thriving.

So, I went to visit the USC Tree Baby to try to cheer up.

Many thanks to all the Tree Baby parents!

I will always love The Tree, and I will always miss The Tree. Sick-Amour.

And, now I must move forward; because tomorrow, I start Border-Ball: a 40-Day pilgrimage along the U.S. – Mexico border

TOMORROW, OCTOBER 29, the pilgrimage begins. This blog will follow and publish Joel Tauber’s journey every time he will send  documents and stories.  The editor, RA

 

JEROME ROTHENBERG and CHARLIE MORROW: BREATHING

BREATHING …. our perennial COMEDY OF MISTAKES

with JEROME ROTHENBERG and CHARLIE MORROW, ROSANNA ALBERTINI and CHARLES-LOUIS de MONTESQUIEU

 

RA    missing eternity and perfection, we rely on counting, measuring and forgetting

JR    There are worlds here / hidden from sight / whose ends are like / their beginnings

RA    and yet we move on changing confident that time will do the right job and memory will be a safe

JR    that farce replaces tragedy / obscene even to think it / & yet to come into another age / & find it proven true

MONTESQUIEU    I’m not a poet, but I know it, the becoming is universal soul, almost a wind, a  life-giving breathing: a “principle” produced by an infinite chain of causes interwoven through centuries, until they tune the spirit of one age.  Once the tone is given, it is the only governing force, it dominates until the total destruction. If the tone is corrupt, humans can only forget themselves.

 RA    I’m not good at counting. Please Jerry, tell me it is not true we must be reminded of a vanishing earth

JR    some will proclaim the word / against all odds / others can only wait / & wonder  

 

 Rothenberg’s house, Saturday, August 24 — Videos by Peter Kirby 

Charlie Morrow playing various instruments, Jerry Rothenberg reading

       

Jerome Rothenberg, NEVER DONE COUNTING, 2019

Enclosed by matter /all my thoughts / scream for prophecy. / When I wake up on Mondays / the night is still hanging / above me galaxies / shedding their images /fading unknown / in the half light / a light that confounds me. / Nothing we know is unreal / & nothing is real. / There is only the face / of a woman / blind in the sun / & a voice that cries out / in a language like French. / When she raises her arms / they look distant and lame, / something there / that won’t work but falls flat / against me. I will follow her / up to the moon, will watch her / paint herself red / with no sense / of the distances still to be traveled, / no plot to adjust to / but numbers / that show me / the little i know,  /  the way one / vanishing universe /  shrinks till it swallows / another. / There are worlds here hidden from sight / whose ends are like / their beginnings,  / the world in daylight / turns dark / the blaze of noon / caught in their mirrors, / as the sun slips / through our fingers / never done counting / where the globe / has dropped / out of sight.*

Jerome Rothenberg, THE POEM AS LANDSCAPE, 2019   

the definition of place / is more than / what was seen / or what was / felt before / when dreaming / of the dead / the way / a conflagration / wrapped itself / around his world / leaving in his mind / a trace of dunes / the fallout from / a ring of mountains / reminders / of a vanished earth / the landscape / marked with rising tufts / the hardness of / clay tiles / that press against  / our feet like bricks / the soil concealed / beneath its coverings / through which  a weave / of twisted wires / crisscross the empty / fields as markers / to commemorate / the hapless dead / the ones who fly / around like ghosts / bereft of either / home or tomb / in what would once / have been their world / the count fades out / beyond 10,000 / leaves them to be swept / down endless ages / fused together / or else apart / lost nomads / on the road / to desolation / a field on mars / they wait to share / with others / dead at last**

 

The mystery is all contained in speaking

then the little silences

surround my words like poetry

I breathe them in & out***

 

Whiteness grows around Charlie Morrow’s images and words, around which we should imagine a space expanding, with no edges.  Each verbal suggestion is the core of a sound event. Our mind can hear.

 

CHARLIE MORROW

1 

 B o o k  of  B r e a t h

2

3

 

Life birth                                                                               breathing in

                                                    two hearts two years early on

4

Breath Chant

5

Kaddish Tibetan

6

Breeze

vegetable breezes

7

Whisteling in and out

8

Breath and Bells

9

Wind Song

10

Birth of the Eagle Voice

11

Remembering Breaths

12

Breath of Love

13

la petite mort

14

Death                                                                                 breathing out

                                                                            On the assent of the fragile

 

As for me, I hold my breath.

I hold my breath trying to keep it in me as long as I can, facing the last edge. That’s the way my life moved, from an edge to another, suddenly immersed in spaces where everything was new: faces, language, smells, temperature, colors. I was I because my dog recognized me? Not even that. My dog had been killed by cigarette smugglers near the house of my birth. I was moved to the city. My dialect, the freshness of leaves in the wind, and the small white, soft flowers climbing the bushes, careless of spines, were replaced by the odor of soup mixed with vapors of bleach at the entrance of my apartment building. The fog sucked me in, licking my adolescence out of me. Later the lagoon cuddled me every day on my way to work on the boat, the bus, the train, the boat again, shaking my more mature energy out of my body. Life was breathing, not me. And I was not more than one of the many particles she digests, like the ogre of fairy tales. One story after another, waves of living pealed the years off, bringing me in front of the unknown, one more time. What’s after the last breath? I am so curious I can’t express it. I am so happy. The desert where I am now erases all fears: it’s a blooming of nothingness, for the nothing we are. 

Now I see what my grandfather painted when he placed me sitting on the edge of a landscape, looking at the void. The painting was made in his studio, a fantasy about my future, probably. He also placed himself in the scene. He is the tree behind me, as I felt him all my life long. We are wrapped in light, and mad with love for this life that annihilates us.  

Rosanna Albertini

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Title and year unknown, about 1950

Bibliography:

*Jerome Rothenberg, The President of Desolation & Other Poems, Further Autovariations Reminders of a Vanished Earth, Arrangement and edition © 2019 Black Widow Press

**Jerome Rothenberg, The President of Desolation & Other Poems, 2019, Further Autovariations Reminders of a Vanished Earth, Arrangement and Edition © 2019 Black Widow Press

***Jerome Rothenberg, from The Mystery of False Attachments, Word Palace Press, @ 2019 

Charles-Louis de Montesquieu, Storia vera, with translation and postface  by Rosanna Albertini, Palermo, Sellerio Editore, 1983