reading cuban buddhist poet omar perez' daybook, cubanology [station hill; 2018] i am thinking that all writing is translation.  what originates in my grey matter is changed into sounds, or marks on paper or screen, different than the original.  at least that is my thinking on the matter.  i admire writers like perez, & lars palm, & pierre joris, & anselm hollo, & stefan hyner etc etc, who are able to write in several languages.  makes the sense of stable identity challenging.  after all, who is this richard lopez who types these words vs. the richard lopez who shows up to work each day.  the same, & different.

anyway, i am reminded of my own utterly ordinary otherness last night in lake tahoe.  we got out of the smokey valley air for the weekend at a cool retro motor lodge where we did little but read & wander around the gorgeous lake.  for dinner we went to a nearby mexican restaurant.  i order our meals & pay with my credit card.  the young mexican woman looks at the receipt.  'you are lopez?' she asks  'yes, does the name not match my face," i replied.  'your family is from here?'  'yes, born & bred californian,' i said.

but richard lopez is a very common name in california.  i delight in its ordinariness.  & i love its otherness too.  which richard lopez are we talking about?  does it matter?  still, my name is a translation of all other richard lopezes in not only california but the world.  because this name belongs to me.