Issue 117

The world is too scary and the children don’t care. / They don’t care because of the bombs and the fear of bombs

When I listen to the oratorio, I see the canyon in my mind. I hear the soundscape from which Robert created such a moving plea for ecological awareness and urgent action. That, I suppose, is as it should be, since the Chama has, in his own words, “flowed into nearly every piece I’ve written since 1993.

Once you explore the revelations of science—from the multiverse to black holes, dark matter, and quantum physics—there is a realization that in our era humankind is experiencing the birth of a profound new consciousness. All births are painful and contain elements of danger and risk, but births are the necessary threshold for evolving potential.

What is it about the familiar visual vocabulary of Renaissance—the haloes, the gold leaf, the careful arrangements of figures, that makes it so ripe for borrowing?

The light of the soul throws sparks, can send up flares, builds signal fires, causes proper matters to catch fire.

When the peonies bloom, come over.

Lauren was waiting for the holy word of God. It was spring. Whatever.

So much wine—wine with food and wine without, wine while they watched the kids play in the yard and when it was just the women together on a Monday night.

The shore is brailled by detritus

When I sit here alone, notebook lying open on my writing desk, I find I become someone other than the person I am when walking about or sitting in company or even sleeping.