To sit on a hotel balcony in Jerusalem and to write:"Sweetly pass the days from desert to sea." And to write:"Tears dry quickly here. This blot is a tear that made the ink run." That's how they used to write in the last century. "I have drawn a little circle around it."

Time passes, as when someone's on the phone laughing or crying far away from me: whatever I hear, I can't see; what I see, I don't hear.

We weren't careful when we said "Next year" or "A month ago." Those words are like broken glass: you can hurt yourself with them, even slash an artery, if that's what you're like.

But you were beautiful as the commentary on ancient text. The surplus of women in your distant country brought you to me,but another law of probability has taken you away again.

To live is to build a ship and harbor at the same time. And to finish the harbor long after the ship has gone down.

And to conclude: I remember only that it was foggy. And if that's the way you remember- what do you remember?

Now that nearly all leaves have finished descending from the heights to quilt the streets, and since winter in my head is tied to walking, somewhat aimlessly, in the distances that open up to this slightly marbled and dirty light, and since this borrowed image (from the cover art of an album by Madredeus, a great Portuguese fado/folk band) seems to convey some of that aimlessness (with a dash of nostos), it becomes the new header.

When I am sad or pensive, I return to Bach. When I am happy or hopeful, I return to Bach. And Glenn Gould takes me back to Bach. Pieces performed in this concert:

The Art Of Fugue No.1 BWV1080 Partita No.4 in D major BWV828 Well-Tempered Clavier Book II No.9 Fugue in E major BWV878

If you prefer to download this, click here.