8 April 2020. Chaichana and Peter.
There's Peter, in the music room, on Fowles Street, overlooking the canyon. And somehow Chaichana has emerged from a forest in Thailand. Brought together, as they both might enjoy. He's playing something from Beethoven--we'd never heard him do this before, but how not, on this last day before a seventy-fifth birthday--(my own) and the first evening of Passover as well--so that these marvelous overlaps--coincidences, that is--how could they now not be possible?
We tell stories--like dreams--and pictures are stories, too, of course--where sometimes the meaning is clear (they way the line of Chaichana's back takes us to the day that C and I stood in front of the case of Indian miniatures, in a small room, upstairs in the San Diego Museum. How unexpected, to be transported together, back through the centuries, to a garden where lovers recline, in a wilderness, resting on silk divans...
The Queen of Sheba and the hoopoe, who brings a letter from her king, far off in a biblical land. But really, just here on Miramar--he folds it with care, now ready to send, the message is one of love...
