someone who called himself fred called me early this morning. still not awake, i told him i don’t know of any fred which i thought would be the end of it, but he hanged on, and after stilling his slightly shaking voice, proceeded on with dignity to remind me that he was indeed fred, the one who knew something i was interested in when he spoke to me somewhere before, a church, a gallery, i forgot now. i am not so big on civility, especially at these times of the day, and i told him goodbye. willing myself back to sleep, i was kept awake by memories of little churches in tuscany that i passed by without a shred of thought of getting into, these nondescript churches with gnarly, unfinished facades, which i only knew later in books and reproduction, hold inside, without fanfare and flash, fresco cycles and altarpieces of heartrending beauty and unremitting wonderment.