Three days ago I went walking through Ithaca's Commons in search of a Diego Rivera book. Used books are usually cheaper and there are two used bookstores right next to one another in the shopping district. Cornell makes Ithaca privy to the heavy paged books that feel like extremities that have fallen asleep. The only drawback is that the bookstores know how these books feel in my hands, so all of the Cortazar books and art books that could be found for cheap in other places are usually pretty expensive here. They know their goods worth. We should say that about our lives and relationships with confidence. Finding an Asturias book hidden among the masses for 50 cents, sticking my fingers through the pages like frosting on cake, thats why I go to these places. My hands growl and ache.

If I were searching for a Leonardo or a Georgia O'Keefe or a Van Gogh or a Monet or any other blockbuster artist I'd be set. They're like moss in these places. I hunted for a good half hour and found nothing resembling Diego Rivera. I did find a book called Rayuela or Hopscotch which was a show curated around Latin American artists, which used Cortazar's non-linear novel, Hopscotch as it's foundation. Oh, were I rich. I broke down and asked the woman at the front desk if she had any idea whether or not there was Diego Rivera book somewhere along the warped stomach linings of these shelves. (I said store in place of warped stomach linings) She lit up and said she was a muralist. She loved Diego Rivera. She said this with a Polish accent. She darted toward those side shelves behind the counter that tease and laugh at me every time I'm in there. "Psst," they whisper, "Over here...I'm over here, sneak back here and take a bite of my fruit." Fortunately this woman had clearance to meander through those gardens of off limit books. She plucked one from the shelf ripe for my taking. A beautiful Rivera book. The sticker price said ten dollars. I looked it over with an erudite squint, as if it were an answer to a question that I had not predicted, which it was in a way. It was perfect. I held it for a minute and flashed through the pages, shaking my new found extremity until it awoke and began sending signals to my head that it was still alive and ready to start performing. It's time to begin painting again. I spit out the seeds and left, warning Rayuela to stay warm and awake.