Death by Water

from the Wasteland, 1922
by T.S. Elliot



Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,     
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell     
And the profit and loss.     
                          A current under sea    
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell     
He passed the stages of his age and youth     
Entering the whirlpool.     
                          Gentile or Jew     
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,     
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Chez Fernando

Fernando & Clara
Somewhere. In this world. A haven from madness.


Jacques Camus

"l'école de Paris"
Einar Moos
Jacques Camus

In his local, Jacques Camus is waiting for rain. Rain is an inspiration; he waits for the light glistening in puddles reflecting the walls and roofs of his quartier Mouffetard. He waits for inspiration to put the finishing touches on a painting he has been working on for a couple of weeks. Jacques Camus has a small blue atelier on 12 rue des Patriarches facing the morning sun during the day, and the street's name fits him well: he's a kind of patriarch.


Janice de Rosa: a weekend at St. Malo

some kind of jazz
Einar Moos
Janice de Rosa, Cancal

On February 9, 2014, we met on the lightly crowded SNCF Monparnasse station platform. It was a sunny Sunday morning. The diva Janice de Rosa appeared holding her electronic pipe like a fetish, draped in jeans, a fuzzy jacket, New York made polar bear boots, her racy handbag, pulling a small suitcase, her blond head covered by a brown tea cup shaped wooly hat that reminded me of Milena Jesenska - a homunculus of some jazz.



Debunking Opus Pistorum
G. Legman
Tropic of Cancer 1934


NOTE: Health problems (dizziness/vertigo spells) have prevented typing this clean. Perhaps this original ms . form will be of interest in showing how revision and correction is done. G.L.

No somos

No somos dueños

del aire

ni del viento


No somos dueños

del agua

de los esteros

de los rios

ni del Océano Pacífico


No somes dueños

del pasto

las plantas

los arboles

ni de la tierra

nuestra Pachamama


Pero si somos dueños

del tiempo


Olmué 2012


Carlos Henderson


il dit ne te plains pas du monde où tu tombes debout

ne te plains pas, toro mata il y a eu

des carnavals sur les hauteurs avec les diables et leurs flammes et leurs danses, et leurs costumes de mille couleurs

les voix du cosmos au bord de la mer quand tu riais herbe haute

aie confiance en toi, en toi, en toi et les autres aussi dans la joie


elle peut t’offrir




él dice  no te quejes del mundo donde caíste de pie

Goddesses, Doormats and Love Artists

Karen Margolis

“Women are either goddesses or doormats.” This neat maxim was attributed to Pablo Picasso by his erstwhile lover, Françoise Gilot, in her kiss-and-tell memoir of life with the famous painter. That was back in the mid-20th century when the myth of the male genius was at its height and great artists were assumed to be equally skilled in the ars amandi. Unsurpassable whether wielding a paintbrush at the canvas or a penis on the chaise longue during afternoon sessions with female models in the intimacy of their studio.

Andrés Monreal (1932-2012)

A vision in the mirror
Einar Moos
Andres Monreal

He left as he came into my life - a rumor.

Few will dispute the fact that he was a genius. To some he was known as the Casanova of Ibiza. He liked to think of himself as the Michaelangelo of the Baleares.

Ibiza had been his home since the early 1960s, when he began working in films. He cast convincingly as the Bedouin freedom fighter Ahmed in "The Lost Command" (1966), Mexican captain Herrera in "Villa Rides" (1968), or captain Ahab of Nantucket on the seven seas.


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