Beside the Yellow River, on the bank of the waters of the Yan, is the yellow earth plateau. Before the yaodong caves the millstone grinds, it seems a return to yesterday. I’m going to Yan’an, to see the soft passing of time, to see thousands of hills, everywhere red.

Who built the seven gates of Thebes? The books are filled with names of kings. Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone? And Babylon, so many times destroyed. Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima’s houses, That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it? In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome Is full of …

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Modernities Tomorrow What is that treacherous term, who’s weight we cannot inherit, who’s pressure sustains and dissolves us at it’s beckoning. Perhaps such is the feeling of one embedded in the fabric of a time unknown to itself, yet so perfectly sure of it’s necessity. How does one speak of a self-reflective epoch, when modernity wipes all previous memories into a thin …