She’s the last surviving member of a Columbian human rights group – re-labeled “terrorist organization”. Some were tortured and killed in Columbia. Other, older, members died in exile. With the peace agreement signed between the FARC and the Columbian government, she plans to go back soon and seek reparations as outlined in the agreement. Not as a personal gesture but as a collective one on behalf of the others who can no longer seek anything whatsoever. As her model, she’s using a collective action by a Columbian university whose members were also accused of terrorism. Listening to her last night, I couldn’t help but think of Turkish intellectuals, being jailed left right and center right now by the Erdogan regime.

We were talking about a collection of her photos of women and when they might be shown  in the foyer at the local cinema. My notes of the meeting: in the small pocket notebook I always carry around with me along with a set of twelve mini fine-point colored markers. The notes consist of occasional words and many, many colored doodlings and moodlings.

Writing. But I collapse into exhausted sleep first, after an early-morning meeting followed by several hours of re-connecting with the singing group. Work on contra tempo – binary, ternary, foot, hand and voice work. Shifting from fourths to fifths in the three-part harmony of a Brazilian song. Then, a song from Mali and the young son of a group member immediately picks up on the close resemblance between the last harmonic line and… Beethoven’s Für Elise.

The ones I was to see this afternoon never showed. Their phone on voice mail. The ones I saw this morning: doing OK for now. Preparing to sell as many personal items as possible at tomorrow’s big brocante.

The writing moves slowly. Finding the right tonal shifts within scenes or between them.

My local friends wish to celebrate my birthday next week. The notion of turning seventy strikes me as funny.