| LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village Douglas Messerli Autumn Between the bends of the night are visions of the city, echoes of indifference sensed from the pants in the last field of beasts. The young men smell dirty, their customers stupendous in their tough turning. The errand boy sweats along the facade of his passion, the mute brother goes along with the crowd that seeks invisibility, the olive man comes from some other village, the fruit of his own theft of youth, the boy in the cap was born to complete his history, and everywhere everyone dazzles without giving up light to black back alleys. The scrawny kid in scorched shorts screeches, the cock that becomes a clock. Time to leave? Some actually do, and some stay and some do neither, hanging at the edges of possibility. It is summer surely. Still. It is not. Quiet. Intolerbly noisy. Almost peace. [from Pier Paolo Pasolini] October 7, 1998 Next |