One of the things I missed this year.
With plans for a trip to Bilbao ruined at least I am finding little information about my beloved Victor Erice new work - ​Sky and Stone

I find it really inspiring that in the last decade (and more) he dedicated his time and visual genius to create works based on other people's artistic creations - focusing on them and creating sub-realities around art-works that already exist on their own, adding new ways of seeing and connecting with them. 


My dream is to invite him to make a visual installation on one of the hills in my hometown ;] Luckily dreams are not like plans and they can't be ruined (not in the same way anyway) so I'll keep building the vision till one day I can see it happening.​            

                                                               

The importance of writing letters to poets...well I can only compare it with 6CO2 + 6H2O + light. One more ingredient and you might have a poem dedicated to you. The gesture of a short note embroidering the eternal silence. Some poets are weakly encrypted - they don't ask for too much. Just write them a letter. That's all.
I remember writing to this (then) young poet, now teaching professor, about a poem or two that I liked. He was fast to reply and reminded himself about his 'grand time' in Bulgaria in 1996. Funny but I think my family was also on a holiday in Sozopol that exact year. Small but not so lonely planet. :) It's always worth the time to write to a poet, especially when you get the 'warmest wishes' and a few more sips of inspiration in reply.
"Fable" by Mark Yakich

Once upon a time
there was a lonely fox; she was
lonelier than a wooden rowboat in a field.
She happened to come to a hill,
and fell in love with the first wolf she saw.
Already she loved its long lashes
and its freckled wrinkles,
but the eyes stopped her.
Apart from God nobody ever
found those eyes as beautiful
as did this child–like beast.
So at night the fox went up the hill,
stopped before the set of eyes,
and never moved from there any more.
She had wanted a life of chasing butterflies,
but instead stood by one mustard iris.
When, at last, the wolf opened its mouth
it was not to kiss the fox
but to let the world crawl in.