this week i

joined a pack.

celebrated easter with the crowd.

have seen you somewhere.

live in a weird town.  good food, though.

snapped the pieces together.  $70 for a wifi-enabled machine that plugs into any lcd monitor, byo wireless keyboard and mouse.

read hemingway's dangerous summer.

pamplona is no place to bring your wife.  the odds are all in favor of her getting ill, hurt or wounded or at least jostled and wine squirted over her, or of losing her; maybe all three.  if anybody could do pamplona successfully it would be carmen and antonio but antonio would not bring her.  it's a man's fiesta and women at it make trouble, never intentionally of course, but they nearly always make or have trouble.  i wrote a book on this once.  of course if she can talk spanish so she knows she is being joked with and not insulted, if she can drink wine all day and all night and dance with any groups of strangers who invite her, if she adores continual noise and music and loves fireworks, especially those that fall close to her or burn her clothes, if she thinks it is sound and logical to see how close you can come to being killed by bulls for fun and for free, if she doesn't catch cold when she is rained on and appreciates dust, likes disorder and irregular meals and never needs to sleep and still keeps clean and neat without running water; then bring her.  you'll probably lose her to a better man than you.

it was the closeness and the slowness that carved the figure and made each pass seem permanent

only the expensive side of the ring applauded

a bullfighter can never see the work of art that he is making.  he has no chance to correct it as a painter or a writer has.  he cannot hear it as a musician can.  he can only feel it and hear the crowd's reaction to it.  when he feels it and knows that it is great it takes hold of him so that nothing else in the world matters