mOdax

...he couldn't turn up, texted me just before I got there. I went anyway, got a coffee and scribbled in my pink&green jewelled notepad:

God the cities are so cubic, such a clamour of colours; God we are so crammed with these overlapping grids of various perspective, these right angles; do we unconsiously crave the silent purple curves underneath shyly suspended pollen drops, hinted nectar, frozen doe's with their outstretched fawns?

God I want to go to Antarctica with my camera.

She brings my coffee, i put it on the edge of the single column, newstype on the almost-imperceptible grey grain of newspaper, through which i am entering into South America. There is no photo, but i find brown faces black hair rainbow clothing, and eventually i find new characteristics crawling out of the faces which I found all_the_same just a minute ago.

I cannot explain these new distinuishing features, like you cannot explain the lady you always meet on the bus and with whom you step into deep conversation, who would be spoiled if you ever exchanged names; you already have a languageless name for each other that doesn't belong to writing or speech.

The South Americans are in trouble, but the children grin, and there are babies. Electoral; process; discussed; referendum; Chavez; health; opposition; deterioration; oil; credit; missions; social; brutal; grip; economics; activists; front; vehicles; popularity; prudence; empire.

God I want to go to Antarctica.

Back on the bus:
Outside the window, driving past a kite in a tree, children in a treehouse. The man at the back, i know him namelessly too; he owns a bike for sunny days.