You know, there is a children’s game here. It is called “the enchanted.” Anytone who touches you enchants you. You must remain frozen until someone else comes to touch you. Then you can move again. Who can say how long it will be before someone else enchants you once more? It is a dangerous word. You are bedazzled. But you do not own yourself anymore. You belong to someone else who can be good or bad to you, who knows? … Some things are both yours and not yours; they are painfully yours because they are not yours. You understand? – Carlos Fuentes, The Old Gringo

Fuentes is translated by a woman, and they have woven an endless tangle of fathers and sons and sunbaked skin and sex upon sex. Fuentes and the woman translator brought us these sweaty tangles of blood and pulse and life and everything just through the thrust parry thrust of sex itself … sex as exposition, sex as decision, sex as power. Whoever of the two of them quite made the book into what it is… i cannot pull my head out of the tangle of shifting narratives and parenthetical thoughts and mirrors and yet another labyrinth of life mirrored across itself to create a twin garden of forking paths that is turning turning turning within itself like a season.

Sorry, i was writing blogs in class again…