the dialect i grew up speaking in this remote island off the northern tip of a central province in the old country is one loaded with lots of fricatives, hard ones. nothing reminds me more of the harshness of that language than this per diem colleague with the screechy voice, almost that of a disney witch's. whenever i see her at work, i always find any excuse, at all, to steer clear away from her and yet, invariably, she and her stories always find me. the way she tells them, her spirited countenance, her hands fully animated while doing them, reminds me of old women back in the island, balancing heavy stuff on their heads, their backs bent, arms flying, mouths inexhaustible with small town gossip. there was this very minor painting, unattributed to any major art historical figure, in the accademia in venice, i think, which somehow stuck with me. in it were hunters, some in horseback, some on foot, and a generous pack of hunting dogs running all over the canvas, yet, everyone, especially the eager canines, does not seem to move, as if all were trapped in amber.