Quiet City Beyond the cones of lamplight, the park ruminates itself, the memory of summer’s lovers, and childhood monsters fondly recreated all night by passersby. In the theater district shows have let out, and audiences stand silent a moment, unwilling to relinquish images of one who may or may not be the hero, like themselves. Then buses come, and plazas empty beneath loosening leaves, except where café lights invite unexpected necessary persons to enter, briefly effecting a deeper hush than that of loneliness. Uptown, on a thousandth floor, behind infinite drapery, a rich man reads reports. It should be possible secretly to open the secret valves and rot the wiring, plumbing, bread and lungs of those below; so that he could walk out in his worst suit and still be worshiped by the starving drowned. He knows he’s dreaming. In the dream he’s ashamed, and reconfigures profits to benefit, without acclaim for him, innumerable multitudes starting tomorrow morning. Into which he will only need to open his front door and descend a single step. Meanwhile his calculations float like unheard music over unlocked houses and tiny unlocked cars. In sleep a million clerks and workers turn to their wives and become satyrs and centaurs, their wives nymphs, their children hippogriffs and dragons happy in feathers and claws, and the poor spiders, coyotes, trickster-figures of former cultures. And there are gods among them or they are gods, and feast and toast each other to justify retroactively this heavy slumber. Sated, the Minotaur renounces flesh; even the envious Cerberus drinks and sleeps. These Aren’t The Droids You Want You turn away, your squad follows. One doubts, but isn’t paid to and will say nothing. There’s no need to cloud obedient minds. It’s sad how weak that white, insectile, otherwise fearsome armor is against laser and even projectile weapons, let alone thoughts. It’s designed to keep you in. And the droids *are forgettable: they have that sweetness civilization has relegated to machines. The eager fluting of one, the other locked in its ceramic pride … as distinctive as any of the quasi-employed thugs who fill this desert planet, the usual army of facts in search of a myth. I have drawn from a brave cylinder the image of a Princess, to fuel a democratic revolution in which I will soon die. Now I lead, without seeming to, cupidity, vanity, growling loyalty from one destroyed stronghold to the next, meanwhile teaching a backward youth some portion of detachment. The Bagpiper Derain, *Le Joueur de Cornemuse*, 1911 When for the first time the townspeople heard music – noises the stranger drew from his unfamiliar object – they didn’t halt, only paused, didn’t fall to their knees, only glared. Yet they knew instantly what it meant. It would complicate and crowd perception, bend what had been their straight line. Loud in a place where only flood and fire disturbed, it was sophisticated, putting them to shame before imagined elsewheres. The *doubleness of each sound the thing made mocked their accent and their solemn narrowness. Its endless drone belabored them with the Ideal. There in the square the townspeople laid hands on the stranger, though not on his machine: who knew what it might infect with its last squeal? Backlit in a large but peeling room, a dyspeptic pyramid combined the powers of money, state, and church. When the mob had brought the piper before it and left, it rumbled, “We serve Time. To serve means to adhere, not alter or anticipate. Our method is suppression of the senses. To buy what is sold, despising it and self, yet with contempt becoming habit and, like any habit, comfort. To love what is given: the sour breath of another as familiar as one’s own; the stone wearing through centuries of whitewash; the doubtful light. By dawn you must be far away from here.” But at dawn the piper stood on a ridge outside town. Some perplexity had slowed him, and petulance almost changed his sketchy moody features. Who was (he wondered) that fat silhouette? The *Monsieur Bertin* of Ingres, the famous “Buddha of the Bourgeoisie,” by way of Magritte’s Keeper of Cardboard Keys and Chalice? I know that the secret tunnel to paradise runs clockwise and counterclockwise through the walls of the world’s museums: it’s how I travel, how I happened here. But tyranny has no passage there; he had no right to bid me stay or go. And what is this children’s tale of a town without music? All cultures sing – at their rotting end, they’ve little else. This isn’t an early world, nor I created to be Orpheus. Unless … Here he pondered the view. It was improved by distance. The road behind him forked, defined a square around a pond or inlet of the sea. Pollarded trees, red roofs, and everywhere the Golden Section – it seemed the goal of travels. Yet he knew how killer crowds erupt from even well-posed lanes and won’t stop unless time is stopped. A bird approached the birch, expansive and knowing, beside him. Both moved so wonderfully. The piper primed his bag and gripped the chanter, sighed that he must leave forever, and put the mouthpiece to his lips and blew. http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1114/812457363_245fdee132.jpg http://repainterdiaries.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/monsieurbertiningres1.jpg http://www.bibi.org/box/2005/fevereiro/The_Liberator.jpg