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No Sounds III No. 20

Later
You say,
Got the message?

It
Unfolds in
A treble region

Of
Shimmering brightness.
Things cease to

Be
Things, cease
To cease to

Be
Things. Your
Face breaks up

In
Leaves, spreads
Itself out like

A
Cloud of
Passionate expressivity. “Just

Be
Ordinary and
Nothing special.” You

Stand
Under a
Cottonwood tree, wind

Blows,
Clarifies first
At a major

Third,
Then opens
Up to a

Fourth,
A fifth,
Is squeezed up

To
A high
E, long sustained,

Is
Abruptly torn
Off. Over and

Above
The muteness
Of walls. Got

The
Message? Once
Again there is

An
Ending that
Is not an

Ending.
The music
Has arrived at

The
Very extremes
Of the orchestral

Range,
From where
It may be

Imagined
Continuing into
Spheres beyond hearing.

It
Scorches and
Burns as it

Goes,
Leaving ruins,
Trash, scrap, rags

And
Tatters, traces,
Dust, dilapidation and

Dirt,
The divine,
Our lives, our

Hope,
Our why,
In its wake.

[Note: Sources: Janet Rodney, “Bardo of Leaving”, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Gyorgy Ligeti, String Quartets Nos. 1 & 2/Ramifications; Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour)]

No Sounds III No. 19

And
The stream
Falls off the

Mountain.
Frankly, I
Enjoyed this immensely

Since
I was
Following spontaneous musical

Intuition.
You are
Wherever your thoughts

Are.
I began
Piling all four

Pianos
On top
Of each other.

As
Suzuki said,
“All moral values

And
All social
Practices emanate from

The
Non-conditioned
Life that is

The
Void.” The
Night has got

A
Grip on
The tops of

The
Pines. Explanations
Come to an

End
Somewhere. A
Short cycle of

Chords.
Tàpies: “Many
Suggestions can be

Derived
From the
Image of the

Wall
And all
Its possible permutations:

Separation,
Cloistering, the
Wailing wall, prison,

Witness
To the
Passing of time;

Smooth
Surfaces, serene
And white; tortured

Surfaces,
Old and
Decrepit; signs of

Human
Imprints, objects,
Natural elements; a

Sense
Of struggle,
Of effort; of

Destruction,
Cataclysm; or
Of construction, re-

Emergence,
Equilibrium; traces
Of love, pain

Disgust,
Disorder; the
Romantic prestige of

Ruins;
The contribution
Of organic elements,

Forms
That suggest
Natural rhythms and

The
Spontaneous movements
Of matter; a

Sense
Of landscape,
The suggestion of

The
Primordial unity
Of all things;

Generalized
Matter; affirmation
Of and esteem

For
The things
Of the earth;

The
Possibility of
A varied and

Combined
Distribution of
Great masses; a

Sense
Of falling,
Of the bottom

Falling
Out, of
Expansion, of

Concentration;
The rejection
Of the world,

Inner
Contemplation, annihilation
Of the passions,

Silence,
Death; twisting
And tortures, quartered

Bodies,
Human remains;
The equivalent of

Sounds,
Clawings, scrapings,
Explosions; shots, blows,

Hammerings,
Cries, reverberations,
Echoes in space;

Meditation
On a
Cosmic theme, reflections

For
Contemplation of
The earth, of

The
Magma, of
Lava, of ash;

Battlefield;
Garden; playing
Field; the destiny

Of
The ephemeral …”
The fire works

The
Side of
The log. I

Found
Myself in
Some new and

Surprising
Harmonic territory.
This is surely

Where
All the
Common fateful contingencies

And
Innumerable resonances
Must be stored.

[Note: Sources: Pat Reed, “Container of Stars”, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Steve Reich, You Are (Variations); Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour)]

No Sounds III No. 18

Who
Speaks this
Language? We sit.

Laugh.
Sing. We
Dream. Many neurotransmitters

Are
Of ancient
Lineage. I mean,

This
Music consists
Of important aspects

Of
The serial
Tradition, and at

The
Same time –
In the absence

Of
A possibility
That will revolutionize

The
Total existential
Content of life –

A
Return to
The state of

The
Simple “creature.”
Sacred plants have

Been
Our companions
Since the Paleolithic.

Possibly
They discovered
Language. Some of

Them
Saw all
The way to

The
Core. Every
Note has a

Specific
Duration, rhythmic
Value and intensity.

Each
Reflects itself
Backwards, as in

A
Mirror, standing
On its head.

Somewhat
Closer we
Find Walter Benjamin,

Who
Deals with
The “game of

Sadness”
Because history
Falls into the

Muteness
Of the
World. Sit. Laugh.

Sing.
Psychoactive animals,
Flowing outward toward

The
Nectar-King,
The poison for

Poison,
Sit, laugh,
Sing, dream. Who

Speaks
This language?
It is played

Once
Quite openly,
And then as

A
Kind of
Prayer, time and

Again
In all
Its ratios of

Pitches.
Late –
And post –. A

Wall,
A door
Without a door.

[Note: Sources: Dale Pendell, “Amrta: The Neuropharmacology of Nirvana”, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Karlheinz Stockhausen, Mantra; Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour)]

No Sounds III No. 17

Or
Take a
Stone from a

Mound
Of sorrow
And move it

To
A mound
Of joy. Hammer

A
Nail into
A mirror. Remove

All
The light.
Yes Yoko Ono.

Messages
In a
Bottle thrown into

The
Sea, to
Be washed ashore

Perhaps
And received.
It is not

A
Question of
Something to come.

Rabbi
Shim’on said,
“Not one is

Missing.”
Rabbi El’azar
Said, “My silence.”

Thus
Begins interpolation
Numero sixteen. Stones

Arrange
Themselves on
Separate scraps of

Paper
With an
Unobstructed view of

The
Sky, psalm
Praised be your

Name,
No one …
“As you know,

I
Have never
Pondered much about

My
Work. What
Pushed me hardest:

The
Sound of
A solitary flute.”

Something
Like the
Sound of trees.

Cover
The whole
Thing in a

Wash
Of white,
In melody, in

Marble
Dust, something
Striven for and

Won,
The mystery
If it is

A
Mystery. I
Want a nice

Kitchen,
Nice knives,
Roll, interpolation sixteen.

If
It is
A mystery, stand

Up
Next to
It. Why not.

Yeah.
Why not.
Chop it down

With
The edge
Of your goddamn

Hand.
Rabbi Shim’on
Said, “Not one

Is
Missing.” And
El’azar, “My silence.”

I’m
Just about
Done interpolating. But

Fuck
All, it
Is my birthday.

If
I don’t
Meet you no

More
In this
World, I’ll meet

You
In the
Next one, and

Don’t
Be late.
Don’t be late.

[Note: Sources: Shin Yu Pai, various, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Harrison Birtwhistle, Pulse Shadows (includes bits of Hamburger's tr. of Celan); Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour); The Zohar (tr. Daniel Matt); Jimi Hendrix]

No Sounds III No. 16

Where
Are they
All, those, you

Know,
Configurations? The
Viola emerges once

More
To carry
The music higher

And
Higher. An
Electrical charge capable

Of
Shocking the
Spectator like a

Fetish
Or talisman
With therapeutic properties.

Or
At least
The ability to

Stir
And awaken.
I think so.

But
Then, I
Don't know. The

Finale
Seems to
Be … Or rather,

Somewhere
Between the
Earth in flames

And
The heavens,
The mind in

A
Whirl and
The laying on

Of
Hands, like
Rays of light …

Or
Rather, in
Her fingertips. The

World’s
A song
Of weird mutterings,

Tappings,
Wailings, and
Tremblings. Tracks left

On
A surface
By insects with

Wet
Feet. The
Multiple crosses of

The
Obituaries page
In a newspaper.

The
World’s a
Song of Kuan-

Yin
Shan, Mother-
Of-Mercy Mountain,

[Reflected]
Low in
The rainbow oily

Water.
She heals.
Wants to give

Me
Her umbrella.
There’s hardly a

Raindrop
In the
Rain-sweetened air.

[Note: Sources: Maybe because I’m sick, I don’t know, I couldn’t make use of Mike O’Connor’s “Kuan-Yin Shan: Mother-of-Mercy Mountain” and “Sakura” in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling) until the end, so I also used the Alice Notley poems that appeared this morning on Poetry Daily, “The Locket” and “You Haven’t Saved Me Any Time” (yeah, I know, cheat, cheat, cheat ... and there are a few other bits of cheating here, see if you can find 'em); liner notes to Dmitri Shostakovich, The String Quartets; Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour)]

Third Buried Intermezzo (Spain)

One
Day, then,
The walls reveal

Their
Mystery. The
Density of the

Sacred
Withdrawn into
Itself. And this

Makes
The hand
A scene for

A
Strange exchange.
Each of the

Marks
Or scratches
An episode of

The
Supplicium. Like
A ritual scar

Signed
By a
Worm. And God

Knows
What else.
“He scratched himself

With
A fawn’s
Bone.” That very

Evening,
Having dinner
With Conchi in

A
Greek restaurant,
I solemnly announced

That
After ten
Years of not

Writing
A book,
The moment had

Come
To try
Again. “Bloody brilliant!”

Shouted
Conchi, who
Was hoping to

Add
A third
Book to the

Two
Escorting her
Virgin of Guadalupe

In
The living
Room; with a

Piece
Of pita
Bread dipped in

Tzatziki
On the
Way to her

Mouth,
She added:
“I hope it’s

Not
A novel.”
Later when I’d

Already /
Caused myself
Much pain / And

All
I could
Do was smile, /

I
Chose the
Simplest / words to

Tell
Myself / how
The sun’s golden

Rays /
Had slowly
Crossed the ivy /

Of
The garden
Of five trees.

Like
The reader-
Cicada of the

Ancient
Greek epigram,
We sing our

Freedom
Within the
Fabric of the

Text.
Don Andrés
Had been reading

Medieval
German mystics.
With him, therefore,

“New
Image of
The world” had

An
Ironical meaning:
“The sun, the

Moon,
The stars,
The other beings.”

“Quite
Right,” he
Said, “with the

World
The way
It is …” “Yes,”

I
Agreed. “If
It had been

Different,
I’d have
Demonstrated my doubts

Rather
Than my
Beliefs.” He smiled,

Then
Lowered his
Voice to say:

“When
Faith preaches
Hate, blessed are

The
Doubters.” I
Smiled back, and

Lowered
My voice
To say: “We

Are
All lost
Sheep.” Oh wretched

Heart,
Why not
Admit it’s hopeless?

She
Said jonquils
Came out of

Their
Bulbs very
Slowly so people

Would
Long for
Them more. Gochiku:

The
Long night /
The sound of

Water /
Says what
I am thinking.

Nothing
Is paltry.
One day I

Tried
To arrive
At silence directly.

Those
Millions of
Furious clawings were

Transformed
Into millions
Of grains of

Dust,
Of sand.
Solidarity. So. “To

Become
One with dust …”
(Tao Te Ching).

Emptiness
Never refers
To the absence

Of
Living beings
Themselves (Thich Nhat

Hanh).
On the
Limited surface of

The
Painting … / Later
With the heart,

As
In the
Void … (Shi-Tao).

[Note: The sources are all books I bought in Spain or brought with me (i.e. the Bernhard): Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour); Guillermo Solana, “Nausea and the Hand”, in Soledad Lorenzo gallery catalog Antoni Tàpies, 16 de noviembre – 23 de diciembre 2006; Arturo Barea, The Forging of a Rebel; Thomas Bernhard, Frost; Javier Cercas, Soldier of Salamis; Salvador Espriu, Selected Poems (tr. Louis J. Rodrigues);  Yves-Alain Bois, “From the Spider’s Web” in Gego: Defying Structures; Jose Lezama Lima, Paradiso (tr. Gregory Rabassa); Amin Maalouf, Balthasar’s Odyssey; Ausias March, Verse translations of thirty poems (tr. Robert Archer); Merce Rodoreda, The Time of the Doves (tr. David Rosenthal)]

No Sounds III Nos. 8-15 (Spain)

As
The old
Greek said, “We

Walk
On the
Faces of the

Dead.”
The mountaintop
Of Mt. Diablo

Has
One of
The most expansive

Vistas
In the
World. A reductio

Ad
Absurdam of
A closed system.

To
Live amid
The great vanishing

As
A shadow
Must live. This

Simone
Weil called
Prayer. Arnold Schoenberg

Liked
The piece.
Two figures appeared,

Barefoot,
Dressed in
Overalls, with taped

Mouths.
One pulled
The other to

The
Pavement and
Drew a forensic

Line
Around the
Body. This figure

Was
In turn
Pulled to the

Ground
By the
One who had

Been
Lying prone,
And so the

Process
Continued. [Sortes
Virgilianae: year in

Year
Out, the
Urn stands ready,

The
Fateful lots
Are drawn (Book

Six,
Early, Fagles
Translation). Interpolation fourteen]

The
Untranslatable thought
Must be the

Most
Precise, immense.
This piece was

Written
During my
Los Angeles period.

And
So the
Process continued, in

A
Chain, one
Figure’s fall becoming

The
Other’s rise,
And vice-versa.

More
Briefly, try;
But stymied, give

It
Up, do
Something else. Thicken

The
Plot. Dance.
The feet were

Naked
And vulnerable,
Yet they had

The
Strength. They
Dragged along the

Doc
Martens like
Laughing laceless puppets.

And
As for
Senzaki, he died

In
Obscurity, an
Old dishwasher, with

Few
Friends, a
Kind of parable,

Lost
Bells, lost
Bells (echo). The

Resulting
Video is
A complex and

Poignant
Work, which
Is more Radiation

Than
Power Path,
More Doom. A

Sigh
Than Spared
By Civilization and

Mass
Media. Obviously,
However, the eye

Is
Part of
The body. And

It
Was an
Amusing sight to

See
These old
People shuffle about

In
Dust … still
As they put

It,
This place
Was perfect for

Pebbles,
So rich
With rounded stones,

Transcendent
Thought, body,
Senses, mind, emotions

Everything,
The moment
Of transition from

Optical
To bodily
Sensation, the world’s

Largest
Replica of
A butterfly tongue,

The
World’s greatest
Greatest, that you

Waver
Constantly between
Contradiction and meaning,

A
Sense of
Beauty and anxiety.

So
That this
Kiss, she said,

Might
Shiver out
To the end

Of
The world,
Shimmer outward into

What
Has no
Opposite, the primitive

Voice
Of the
Dream-like beginning,

The
Deep mystical
Deep, the naked

Liquid
Rippling extraordinary,
The sleep of

Words
Towards which
The poem sees,

The
Gently screaming
Nocturnal lux aeterna,

The
Cloud of
Quiet wild. As

You
Move around
Your face is

Very
Lightly brushed
By single strands

Of
Hair hanging
From the beams.

Then
Full moon
Skunk appears / delightful  /

With
Tiny frightful
Screams. Musically exactly

On
The same
Plane as a

Pencil.
Meanwhile the
Strands of hair

Gently
But insistently
Catch in your

Mouth.
The hair
Gets to you.

And
Some people
Blinded by this

Magical
Hokum-pokum
And those far-

Off
Peaks shining
Pure and rare,

Timeless
Cultural artifacts,
Sometimes have their

Own
Material, a
Wedge-shaped sign

Of
A space
For silence whose

Duration
Is entirely
Open and variable.

Why
Not sneeze?
The hair gets

Say
What? I’m
Going to be

Cool
And soften
The dreadful oh

Ick
I have
In my heart,

Wanting
To be
As close to

Nature
Poetry as
Possible. The most

Delicate,
Eroticized and
Lasting of human

Materials
Is also
Considered unclean. Anna

Freud:
When traced
Back to their

Source,
Displacements of
Feeling reveal themselves

As
Based on
Early childhood events

When
The loser
Was himself “lost”,

That
Is, felt
Deserted, rejected, alone,

And
Experienced in
Full force as

His
Own all
The painful emotions

Which
He later
Ascribes to the

Objects
Lost by
Him. “I’m sure

I
Cleaned this
Space just a …

And
Now, in
No time, it’s

Full
Of cobwebs?”
Wondered the woman

Taking
Care of
The large room.

The
Infinite space
Between dendrites. The

Ordinary
Drop of
Calm light of

The
Roar of
The black walls.

One
Day Henry
Went to the

Stand
For some
Vegetables. “Little did

I
Know that
The man I

Was
Buying asparagus
From was a

Master
Shakuhachi player.”
Thus began a

Long
Friendship. “Every
Force evolves a

Form” –
Strangely enough
These words do

Not
Come from
Hatoum herself, nor

From
A theoretician
Of aesthetics, but

From
Mother Ann
Lee (1736-84),

The
Founder of
The Shaker Sect

In
America. [Art
Is life and

Life
Is transformation,
The supreme goal

Of
The traveler
Being to remain

In
Ignorance of
His [yes] destiny

(Youssef
Ishagpour, in
Tàpies, Works, Writings,

Interviews:
Interpolation fifteen)]
((Λ Λ Λ

Λ
Λ Λ
Λ Λ Λ

Λ
Λ Λ
Λ Λ Λ))

Homage
To Charlie
Parker. Absorb the

Atmosphere
And share
The activities. [An

Old
Culture with
A luminous tradition

And
Expression, at
The origin of

Which
Is Ramon
Llull, The Enlightened

Doctor,
As he
Was known, creator

Of
The language:
Silence, the night,

The
Dark face
Of the world,

Infinite
Empty spaces,
The elements of

Everyday
Life. Box
Of strings.] Silence

Is
A roar
With hands. You

Are
Still here.
The pièce de

Résistance
Of the
Evening. Empty enormous

Empty
Empty enormous
Empty. [Rooted in

The
Earth, part
Plant, part animal,

In
A playful
Atmosphere of panic

And
Feverish, elated
Sexual large eyes,

Lengths
Of yarn,
And string, rings,

Rice,
Newspaper, silver
Foil, toilet paper.

Incised
In the
Rock. Graffiti. (End,

Interpolation
Fifteen)] Even
Dada failed. Peace.

Hair
And air.
They stir lightly.

Therefore,
Be it
Enacted by the

Senate
And House
Of Representatives of

The
United States
Of America in

Congress
Assembled, Mud,
Water, Fire, Blackness,

Sight
And Unknown.
The Key to

Songs.
A haptic
Rather than optical

Perception.
Multi-dimensional
Relations to a

World
Where “threatening”
Difference is mitigated

And
Negotiated. You’re
All just a

Box
Of crayons.
The appearance of

A
Comet. One
Comment I really

Liked
Was when
A group of

Builders,
Standing having
Their lunch break,

Said,
“What the
Hell is happening

Here?”
And this
Black woman, passing

By
With her
Shopping, said to

Them,
“It’s obvious.
She’s being followed

By
The police.”
Be it enacted:

The
Whole ball
Of wax would

Make
A lovely
Crayon decorator candle

On
A Day
Of the Dead

Santeria
Petro Voudou
Altar. Be it

Enacted:
An out-
Of-whack music

Box.
An orbiting
Ball of dust.

“The
Color of
Face and the

Warmth
Of body,
The light of

Heart
And eye.”
Simultaneous dimensions. Contrapuntal.

[Another
Unbidden interpolation.
13 November: there

Is
A rabbit’s
Severed head on

The
Sidewalk in
Front of our

Toledo
Hotel. 15
November: “Mis pasos

En
Esta calle /
Resuenan / en otra

Calle /
Donde / Oigo
Mis pasos / Pasar

En
Esta calle /
Donde / Sólo es

Real
La niebla”
(Octavio Paz). My

Steps
In this
Street sound in

Another
Street where
I hear them

Echo
In this
Street where all

That’s
Real is
The fog (tr.

Sam
And John
B-R). The

Paz
Is painted
On the wall

Of
Our hotel
Room in Madrid]

Sky
Fall down.
We are here

In
A tree
With a wire

Star.
Nearly translucent.
Sky fall down.

$1
Will get
You history. History,

You
Seem a
Tiny wrecked thing.

In
The night
And at the

Fading.
Massacres in
The camps. Could

You
Elaborate on
That? Buddha’s ears

Are
Droopy. We
Are here in

Our
Skin. “Flowers
For ritual or

Medicine.”
Away alone
A last a

Loved
Along the
[Sólo es real].

A
“Celebratory / destabilizing
Framework.” Complicating patterns.

We
Are here
In our skin.

I
Rush my
Only into your

Arms.
Loud heap
Miseries upon us.

Nightmare:
I went
To Beirut looking

For
My parents.
In the wreckage

Of
Their home
I found two

Plastic
Boxes. The
Blue box was

Full
Of tiny
Toy soldiers that

Exploded
Becoming a
Cloud of flies

[A
Rabbit’s severed
Head. La niebla].

[Note: Sources: Sam Hamill, Jane Hirshfield, Lawson Fusao Inada, Robert Kelly, Joanne Kyger, Michael McClure, Harryette Mullen, Hoa Nguyen, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Terry Riley, Requiem for Adam; Lou Harrison, Rhymes With Silver; Kronos Quartet, Black Angels; George Crumb, Songs, Drones and Refrains of Death; Christian Wolff, (complete music for violin & piano); Rachel Rudich's collection Henry Cowell: The Universal Flute; Morton Subotnick, Return and The Key to Songs; Stephen Albert, To Wake The Dead; Mona Hatoum (ed. Michael Archer, Guy Brett, Catherine de Zegher)]

Outa Here

For the one or two of you who might care, I'll be in Spain 3 Nov - 22 Nov so it's very possible I won't be posting for a while. It's also possible I will post, since we're visiting our son in Malaga and he's about as wired in as anyone can be. In any case, in this case, silence doesn't (necessarily) equal death . Love to all. JBR

No Sounds III No. 7

A
Newborn babe
Or a naked

Grub
Or a
Manzanita and a

Laurel
Low to
The ground in

A
Rock or
A highly ornate

Statue
Of Monjushri
In the Gate

Gate
Paragate Parasamgate
Bodhi Svaha gone

Worlds
Dangling from
The blooey. Numerous

Large
(In size)
And long (in

Number
Of measures)
Signs of crescendo

And
Diminuendo, with
No indications of

What
These hairpin
Signs are for.

Rusty
Hand-tools,
Mud covering her

Body.
Any time
Is breakfast time.

Bursting
Colors, cascading
Sonorities, explosive dynamics,

Swirling
Rhythms, Poème
Électronique. The artist

Lay
Motionless, wrapped
In plastic and

Gauze,
Heaped with
Entrails, just breathing.

[Note: Sources: Introduction and Norman Fischer, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Edgard Varèse, The Complete Works; Mona Hatoum (ed. Michael Archer, Guy Brett, Catherine de Zegher)]

No Sounds III No. 6

One
Three two
Four intrinsically meaningless

Religious
Noises. I
Have never put

My
Hope in
Any other but

The
World’s greatest
Idiot. Do you

Think
The humbleness
You speak of?

Hum
Phat svaha.
Hum phat svaha.

Grah
Gooooor. There
Were terrifying things

In
The air:
Departure. Absence. Numerological

Symbolism.
Defiance cannot
Be easily separated

From
Vulnerability, order
From chaos, beauty

From
Revulsion, the
Brain from the

Body,
The self
From the other,

Affirmation
From negation,
Form from content,

Light
From dark.
White clouds clinging

To
Vague rock,
Just one just

One
Just one
If only. In tempore

Belli.
Sounds of
The artist’s heart-

Beat
And stomach.
Self-erasing drawing.

One
Three two
Four. Spiritual formulae.

Electric
Insects. Sustained
B-major tonality.

The
God-Music.
A given from

Which
To induce
A physiological change.

[Note: Sources: Introduction and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, in The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes to Kronos Quartet, Black Angels; Mona Hatoum (ed. Michael Archer, Guy Brett, Catherine de Zegher)]