mooncalf

This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out. I don't understand the first thing about radio waves. But I think they travel better just after a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto. Lately, at night, I've found myself becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair and listen, without having to do anything, or think. I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading the papers. At night I turned on the radio.

When I came out here I was trying to get away from everything. Especially literature. What that entails, and what comes after. There is in the soul a desire for not thinking. For being still. Coupled with this a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous. But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch, not always trustworthy. And I forgot that. I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone and will not return than that which is still with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not. And if not, that's all right too. It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all. That's the voice I listened to. Can you imagine somebody thinking like this? That it's really all one and the same? What nonsense! But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.

Then, Machado, your poetry! It was a little like a middle-aged man falling in love again. A remarkable thing to witness, and embarrassing, too. Silly things like putting your picture up. And I took your book to bed with me and slept with it near at hand. A train went by in my dreams one night and woke me up. And the first thing I thought, heart racing there in the dark bedroom, was this - It's all right, Machado is here. Then I could fall back to sleep again.