Bookshelf

Approximately two hours ago I finished Felisberto Hernandez's book Piano stories and since then I've baked my body on damp grass like a breathless trout, become s o incredibly drowsy, went home, drew the shades partly only allowing golden ropes of the sun to slither in. And am now upside down with my feet resting on books of the top shelf, aiding my migrating blood, pooling, I imagine, in my skull. I bought his book in San Francisco at City Lights a bookseller and publishing house at 261 Colombus Avenue. I carried the book all day climbing old hills. A lover picked me up with a fat bass in his back trunk. We bought burritos and walked up to the sunset and fell into the ocean. Hernandez entered his life in 1902 via Montevideo, Uruguay. During his time, he married four women, published seven books, played piano for silent movies, and died, leaving life broke in 1964. Piano stories has me thinking of lifes memories and traumas, and the relationship of the mind, ...