Saturday, December 7, 2013

"Who Is The Father?" from "The Ward Street Chronicles

   "That can't be my Walter's boy!"
   Well, I'd hardly been out of the womb more than three minutes when my paternal grandmother uttered those words, which were destined to ring out like some thematic groundbass accompanying my long day's journey into night, into that very night from which I had so recently emerged. Thus it was the stage was set, in an instant, for this long unfolding all too common domestic drama.
   Of my first two years I have little recollection, stray sounds which pleased, bird song, trainwhistle, but have it on hearsay that I cried incessantly during all that time, both day and night, and only a certain kind of music would shut me up.
   This wonderment at our paternity which seems to haunt the human race, and which is the source of so much passion, and so much pain, which yet occupies our minds so very little once we have settled in, settled into the necessary little certainties which we and the world demand for the continuation of what we call a life, this puzzlement, so useless yet so primal, must be put aside for a host of reasons-the chief of which is simply that life must go on, filling its belly with the food of distraction, even unto the very end and final moment while the question remains for ever unanswered, assuredly unanswerable, while gradually diminishing its hold upon our minds...
   ...and yes, it was all of it, warp and weft, wrapped in mystery. Nothing was known. No one was known. No one knew the answer to the question "Who was the father?" They will tell you that the mother knew, yet often it is the mother who had been the very one most absent at the moment of conception. There had been this cloud, this mist, this universal unknowing. Who had crawled or clammered into her tent? Who knew? No face emerged, and when it did it was the face of the universal mystery. The people of Ward Street might as well have been so many shadow puppets whose names you might have known and nothing more. Who were they? Who? Behind those names?
   Gentle reader! - Shall I call you that? - Yes, it seems I have done so, so let it be. Gentle reader, then, here are their names, in no particular order -

,,,to be continued...

Commentary on the Chronicles

Let this stand as Critical Commentary on "The Ward Street Chronicles"

Friday, December 6, 2013

"The Drowned Submariner" from "The Ward Street Chronicles"

   During all these early years the world was an accumulation of impressions, constituted of passing scenes unburdened by any systematic thought or encumbering opinions. Things were, more or less, what they seemed to be and one had only to let them pass and to feel them with emotion, more or less strong. There were no overarching grand principles against which to measure and judge one's percepts, no attempt to comprehend, sum up, understand, just the scene, the scene suffused with feeling. Even as the moment arose, it dissolved, seemingly never having been. The world had been constituted of a series of disappearing moments, not ever having, perhaps, appeared at all. And had they appeared, what was it that they had been, had they been at all? These were questions that haunted his mind, and there had been none to whom he might speak of these matters or no matters. It was, he had often thought, his dilemma, no one else's dilemma. And yet the past continued to increase, he would note, even as the future decreased, so there must be something to it, he reasoned, something more than a figment in the mind of God. ...
   ...and as we speak of figments in the mind of God there arises in my mind the figure of Forest Simoneau, although I never once so much as glimpsed him. His photograph occupied a prominent place perched on a shelf high in a parlor of which I possess only dim, veiled memories, as of a place that I know must have been, yet a place which had, even then, a distinct air of utter non-existence.
   He was clad in a white sailor suit, of a vintage of the First World War, that war which was to have been the war to end all wars. Ah! How many times had I heard his story, shrouded in a mystery, recounted by voices tremulous with the emotion of grief, a grief unassuaged even after years upon years upon years. He had been a submariner whose submarine had descended into the depths, never to ascend again. His final moments of fully realizing his plight as, at his very end, he perished forever, and his submarine had not surfaced, nor had all the navy's resources proved sufficient to raise it up from the floor of the sea ever shifting, ever dark, every cold. It was the women who spoke of him, who mourned the loss of such a handsome son, cousin, nephew, while the men retired into their forgetful pastimes, advanced beyond my years. I was left alone, to listen. And so it was on the long drive home, the drive back to the familiar and the warm I curled up in the back seat of the Studebaker Starlight Coupe enwrapped in a blanket of horror, terror, and grief. His loss was felt by no one more keenly than I had felt it then. Even now, I feel it still, with its poetry and romance. 

to be continued...

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

from "The Ward Street Chronicles" - Skeets Gets Stuck On Oogie

   When I began these Chronicles I had not counted on the rising up of the dead with their demands. They have, as it were, taken me completely by surprise, and how could they have accomplished this if they had not been still alive? With that question I leave you for now....

   She had not risen from the dead, but rather rode upon the back of a neutrino originating in the depths of space more distant than the milky way, had always been there with him, had he only known that which he did not know, had been the very substance to every shadow cast by mortal flesh...yes,  even upon the lawn of his most distant childhood memories...  

   ...of the dogs Skeets, Oogie, and Gay and the parrot Polly - and of their masters and mistresses - much might be said, but I will content myself with saying little -
   Skeets was a scruffy mutt, of a color strangely orange, tending to a dirty brown, wearing in his demeanor a look of hunger and pity...he looked underfed and his very posture bespoke a hunger which might never be assuaged. His keepers were a boy named Henry, Henry Gilbert with his mom. Her voice rang brittle on the air when she would call his name, beckoning him hurry home: "Henry? Henry Gilbert!" Henry was a stout boy, even as a child of eight, and he would lumber rather than run, with Skeets dancing at his heels, circling in a kind of celebratory motion indicative of his boundless nervous energy. Well, as it happened one fine summer day, before the scent of lilac blossoms had fully faded, Skeets took a turn away from Henry's heels and, attracted by the scent of Oogie in heat, headed straight for the tail of this shiny, spoiled sleek little black bitch just recently emerged from a bath in milk, and skinny Skeets was on her tail and with a frenzied heat was pumping her for all he was worth.
Out comes Mrs. Kirkpride from her house, broom in hand, and commences beating Skeets upon the back, all the while shrieking and screaming. Oogies eyes are popping out as Skeets  in a quick turnabout, is stuck and can't for the life of him pull out.

   Meanwhile a gang of urchins has gathered to cheer on this marvel of nature, to gawk and guffaw, and feed the fury of the lady with the broom.
   And so we gathered piecemeal from nature what our fathers failed to impart to us concerning the fabled facts of life.

to be continued....

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

NaNoWriMo off the top and over the fence into the forest

you’ve named the characters, put them in places, now they will take on a life of their own, make of you their demands, lead you to the next scene, say things you might never have imagined…you are on your way…
and…the best source for fiction is always and ever simply reality…what has been what becomes …
So I follow Aloysius Wing after he decapitates the stockman in the bar in Silver Bow, Graceful meditating on the suds which top her glass of beer, Ah Toy, arriving by train with Ludovicus Deepak, Ah Sing, the Princess Tata, but also Yugo, who might or might not be the husband of a famous novelist, Myrtle Talley, akaStrict Myrtle, aka Crazy Myrtle.. and they begin to lead the way….and always and ever it is an engagement of words, words, words, and with them the thing, always, ever, the very thing itself…Ah!.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Marguerite Young - Princess Of The Perpetual Mist

Profound heartfelt  thanks to @Death Zen for sending this extraordinary image of America's Greatest Writer to me. Ah, Marguerite, your heart held the love of each and every fragment of each and every passing thing, encompassing oceanic vasts not yet discovered in galaxies not yet born, as well as every tender leaf and blade of grass, each and every toiling human being upon this our planet home.
I thank you. I thank you.

Monday, October 14, 2013

A Map Of Music - Title Page in manuscript

This is the title page from my manuscript of "A Map Of Music" - a continuation of my Ph.D. Dissertation "Music and Metaphysics" - the text begins with an examination of the single tone and its uses in various masterworks and the applicability of the study of this essential primal element as a component of musical practice. There are twelve chapters, including one devoted to the twelve-tone system itself, another to the angels of music, one on practice techniques, a chapter on discerning patterns, and so on. I actually was excited to unearth this manuscript today and am ready, able, willing, and eager, to bring it forth from its present sleeping condition into a utilitarian vehicle for students of music, whether performers or listeners, to consider.

Monday, September 23, 2013

McEvilly Moonlight Sonata at Almonte Library OKC

About The McEvilly Bach To School Initiative for Public Schools

A new initiative:
McEvilly-Bach2School - I will begin introducing the Well Tempered Clavier of Bach to public school children - in a series of live presentations for schools, the first 3 of which will be sponsored by the Outreach Program at the Metropolitan Library System, and by placing my McEvilly-Bach Series 2CD sets in public school classrooms throughout the metro area.
I am presently seeking sponsors for this initiative - 
a little background: In the year 2000 I played the Bach Prelude in C Major for the full student body (750 plus) at a school they listened intently, in total silence. When I was finished, a child raised his hand with this question:
"Will you play that song for us again?"
I determined at that moment to record the 24 Preludes and Fugues specifically for use in classrooms - an important distinguishing factor of these recordings is that I had my Mason&Hamlin concert grand tuned to Bach's pitch - a more relaxed string.
The recordings have been used nationwide in classrooms, and are credited with reducing student anxiety levels, and keeping the kids "on focus" 

McEvilly Bach2School Initiative

Upcoming Program at Almonte Library Okc Saturday Sept 28

Monday, September 2, 2013

rising up from the sawdust strewn floor

..he spoke at last, not that it was himself who spoke, but the hollow semblance of an apparition more ghastly than any ghost and what he said was long and fearsome, and dark, and dread, and grey at once, cold, brittle, yet so full of passion that it broke into the vast and insular contemplation of Graceful whose gaze had not once lifted from her absorbed involved introspective world whirling about at the edge of her glass:
"I had been conceived, held, and delivered in a cloak of darkness black as pitch, had known nothing of the light for so long it seemed had a match been lit it would've blinded me forthwith, knew nothing of the trifles and pleasures that bemuse the race of men, and now, now..."
Graceful moved with ever so slight a motion as to have escaped any notice whatever, yet so rare was any movement on her part that the stockmen were as startled as if her own head had fallen with that of their comrade on the floor below. She bent her ear downward to hear what might follow...
to be continued...

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Commenting on a post by Lolly Daskal on Stress and the Heart of Leadership

Lolly - Yes to this, and to the entire post.  "It's time for us to enter the Age of Meaning." and meaning can come only from the heart, from what is heart-felt, heart-endorsed, and heart-centered. Your presence on twitter is a very rich source of inspiration, an indication that change can indeed occur, that we are not condemned to repeat the past mindlessly, but can utilize our intuitive capacities to connect with others, and with ourselves.
I find some of my most basic themes from my many decades resounding in your philosophy: the importance of love over understanding, heart over intellect, and the necessity for everyone, not just leaders, to awaken to a reverence for life, and a regard for each and every human being we encounter as a child of the divine energy and spirit which brought us forth. The call to a recognition of the absolute equality of human beings as human beings, is one which has to be renewed within on a continuous basis.
Profound thanks to you for your extraordinary work.
With love for you and what you are doing-

Monday, July 15, 2013

Anais Nin writes me about Seduction

This letter from Anais Nin is in response to my "The Two Faces Of Death" which she added as an "Afterword" to her novel "The Seduction Of The Minotaur"

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Rupert Pole Taj Mahal Letter

Rupert Pole

Rupert Pole In Friendship

Lillian - You prompted me to go the next step in bringing forth material from my Anais Nin archives, and today this surfaced, and I thought How perfect!

Sunday, June 2, 2013

A Word On sNiptrite

Yes, it had entered my brainbox, there to hover, dart about, rest, fidget, doze, and deepen it hold on my larger mind when if dawned on me that sNiptrite held the key to all the world's wisdom - indeed, if you'd just look at sNiptrite you'd see the source of every witticism the world has ever honored.
sNiptrite was wisdom's hot air. with sNiptrite we enter dimensions vast, dimensions rich...dimensions which were inclusive of all sorts of pickpockets, counterfeiters, pilferers, and the whole crew of buggering philanderers.
He had totally, of course, to have lost hit kit and his kaboodle along with all else strewn along the highway, carried across the snowswept cornfields away, away, away beyond the mountain ridge and the farthest peak still visible in evening have left in his trail yet but a paltry sort of fair made him sigh, and then sigh again, and again, and yet again....
to be continued
with more of the Occasions Of Joke Lam to come

Doubting His Way To The Opium Den

Doubting his way to The Opium Den, there can be nothing for it, then, that Joke would be left stumbling bereft of all, before some dark door. Was there another choice, I asked, was there another choice? Here he was, sprawled out, and, as it were, all handed over like some parcel assigned there for delivery. All of this had transpired and yet nothing at all had come to light, nothing, not so much as a distant glimmer and all that was revealed was this vivid glimpse of mortality, nothing more, nothing less, and yet...yes, there was an and yet, and yet the upshot, so to speak, was quite simply to busy oneself with whatever fancy gave the looked for bestowal. Something like that, or not like that...Simple as that....
So it would seem that the very venture was at once the....
his voice trailed off, voice..
trails off.....

Upshot: So Joke At Last Allowed Himself To Bolt Into A World

Taking Up The Various Occasions Of Joke Lam

There was surely this vast largesse in the topic of the present moment, for Joke could pop up in any number of places of a given time, or no time, beyond time, behind time, Joke, oh Joke, my darling Joke, ah, and O Jokester I see you before me now, as you were on the old Dollar Steamship Lines bound for Singapore and Bombay. I lingered before the decisive moment, to come on board, to be with you, to let my lips lavish praise on yours, lingeringly long, lovely, sweet, who knew, who knew who knew what he might find if he went a lookin' for it, indeed, who knew. Had I mentioned that Joke was of the rice eating south, and not, as was Aloysius Wing, of the noodle eating north? Had I mentioned that detail to your transparencies before this moment? Please respond. How I long for your response. But it will not come, there will be no resounding drum to echo the stillness of my still beating heart...will there...will there...will there? For an instance, as back to the subject of the ubiquity of Joke, he might show a sudden fancy for a lounge chair by the pool in some hospitable resort, with birdsong being the dominant chord of the air. Ignoring the bustle and the movement, and the preening hustle he gazed straightforwardly inward.
  The clouds above, the gentle wind, the lads and the lasses of all sorts, the pool undulating in a sort of wave, all of this he had chosen to leave behind.
  One might as well choose the grand leavetakings, for there they are, in any case, galloping madly in our tracks.
  He became so deftly aware of the felt presence of some discerning intelligence within him, that he doubted his way back to The Opium Den.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Had Not Been One for Strange Dissemble

   Thus it was he asked himself - How was it, then, that I had come to witness, to be there in the midst of, these scenes? How, to be thus placed in this turgid warm atmosphere of this bar reserved for a self-selecting clientele? How, and who, I asked, to be with Graceful at this bar, to witness it all, when at the same time knowing my eyes had never been present, and been absent and, even in that absence, been shuttered? These were the veritable mysteries vast, insoluble - these, the enigmatic ground of each and every pictorial element. 
   I went back in time with each and every scribe, was witness to all their beholdings, saw all they saw, heard what they heard, travelled without the benefit of craft, to be present, a ghost inhabiting each consciousness, an unseen, unheralded presence.

   Continuing, then, with the Book of Joke -
..for yes, to tell a tale he had need of that on which to hang it.
He had witnessed the cold beheading, had taken the measure of all its tones and tonalities, followed each and every trail in the exquisitely carved enigma. He could have, had the need arisen, drawn you a map. He had not been one for strange dissemble, but rather frank in his occasions.
to be continued with
Some Occassions of Joke Lam......

Sunday, May 19, 2013

A Resolve To Do Whatever It Takes

Just suddenly, from a depth, welled up in my heart a resolve, to do whatever it will take not to abandon any of the three major strands of my childhood, begun in 1943 with conscious intention: making music, writing, and learning by heart texts to recite. To get on with this resolve, I am posting a page from my typescript for a chapter on "Anais Nin As A Bodhisattva published in the 1970s. I remember dipping my pen nib into the black ink in a receptacle sunk into the body of my desk at grammar school, the pleasure of it, the sheer mystery of putting words down onto the paper with this crude instrument in hand.

Friday, April 26, 2013

My Fortune: Beethoven Schubert Mozart Upcoming Shows

Saturday April 27th 5pm "BEETHOVEN FUSIONS" at the Great Lawn Stage Festival Of The Arts, presented  by OKC Arts Council


Sunday May 12th 2pm "MOZART FOR MOTHERS DAY" at RJN Downtown Library

Thursday May 23rd "BEETHOVEN FUSIONS WITH VIDEO PROJECTIONS BY THE ARTIST SER" at the OKC Museum Of Art,  brought by Art Moves OKC

All Free - All One Hour

Friday, April 5, 2013

Children At The Piano Fascinated By Mozart

Of all the things I do, my heart is mostly at home when I am playing Mozart for children.

Friday, March 29, 2013

Ah Toy In Her Parlor Overlooking Clay Street

It was a century undefined, a world which was an amusette.
She was emergent at a time when the world was taking note of personality, and her life was a life as a drama of a life of a woman who makes choices and with full awareness of consequences...she requires men who cooperate.
She is creating herself as a reality of art - and all who touch her life she creates.
She wrote in her book of days -
"When you are writing then at that very moment you are also searching, searching for the reader who will hear you.  But what is this, if not some species of regret?"

She received the citation in her parlor overlooking Clay Street - it was handed over in silence by a rather sheepish looking rather Irish appearing San Francisco cop. She took the paper up and turned it over in her hands, rolling it about between her palms, brought it to her forehead, eyes closed, studied it through the thickness of her closed lids, and then took it out to read -

"Tapping at her window" was the accusation...she smiled and turned to thank the messenger, who had, as it happened, already made his way out..."

With the phrase "tapping at her window" tapping at her mind, she mused that always, always, at the end of the day, it is got to be taken off to market, to matter what it may be - the living of a metalife? She knew all about it who had ever sought the absence - the blessed nod to one's request to "Count me out!" But it seemed at this moment she had been very much counted in, and she squirmed as if caught in a net. She made a sudden move, as though to escape drowning...
to be continued

Friday, March 8, 2013

A Gradual Evocation - The Word and With It The Thing

A Gradual Evocation -
I hear my own voice respond to my past three posts on "The Book Of Anais" -
"nice passages"
"nice piece of work"
and I laugh to myself

and I continue -

"The form emerged as there had been this gradual evocation, celebrating the eternal meaning of all that which passes.
I am reaching back far-to the orange crate on the lawn-to the sublime solitude, alone with my notebook and my pen, a child once again.
African violets often occupied my mind, I would see them when I went within, purple and yellow on black velvet-or it was of their care and maintenance my mind was full - a single leaf, its stem planted firmly in the moist soil, puts down roots, brings forth life, blooms - a car passes - the child takes note - an out-of-state license plate - Delaware -
Delaware - the word was so lovely, as lovely as the silver star shining brightly in the not yet dark sky - the child looked up, and, looking down, made another note.
"The bright star appeared before the fall of night."
He liked how that sounded. He mulled it over in his mind. "It is not the statement that is made," he had then thought, "rather it is the word - the word and with it the thing. The word and the thing."

Saturday, March 2, 2013

The Book Of Anais - Unedited And In The Raw 3

And when she reckoned the image of her mother it would be as though from an old all but forgotten photograph, a mere shade of a shadow of a shade.
The air is thick with grit-fine particles of dust adhere to the page on which I write. I hear her voice: "Dust! How wonderful this theme! Endless!"
It is a matter of mirrors-a matter of mirrors.
She who was to be embraced as the embodiment of passion was as relentless a mechanist as the coldest of intellectuals-We think we see what we see, hear what we hear, think what we think and yes feel what we feel yet even in the dusky shades inhabiting all that is feeling were the mirrors, ever, and always.
This must be taken in.

That he would have found himself contemplating the necessity of taking in such a gaping hole fairly took the breath from out of his chest, as he stood on that unnameable corner in the bowels of the old Bombay-he was there at this confluence and must needs face the scenery, take it, as it were, all in. Well, first, you see, there are the hedgerows all in a row, in many rows, rows of rows, rows upon rows of rows, reflecting a music of the river and its motions...a wash of colors, a garden. 

It was of some interest to note, in passing, that Marguerite insisted on knowledge-"You knew, Anais, didn't you, everything!" she had said. "The child knew everything. the child always knows everything." And then, with a voice disappearing as into a mist: "We are all orphans here." 

to be coninued......

The Book Of Anais Unedited And In The Raw - 2

Anais dwelt in the delta of dust. For her this life was one continuous dust bowl which a sense of duty bade her fight. And so she took upon herself yet another role-soldier and warrior. This  became a rigid presence in her adopted stance. Whatever the face she chose to employ, that core hard and brittle support remained in full presence.
Who? What?
What need to describe when you can invoke?
What need to describe when you might evoke?
A felicitous climate within which the fostering of absence was almost guaranteed was afforded me as a child. I spent my days and nights far away. Anais kept calling me back to earth. There was none of that sublime languor of the serene sea in her world-at any moment the shriek of a siren, not matter at what distance was a jolt into the black and red, that over which she fancied she held some directing sway....
What she did not understand, yet Marguerite knew full well, was had I been present, I could not have discerned these things.
But I digress.
To get to a point here, to come down to brass tacks, to hit the nail right on the head at dead center we must take into this account how Marguerite became a cow, yes. This was an honor bestowed upon her by Truman Capote. He knew full well that Marguerite was a literary heavyweight, and he, Truman, was quite simply really not. And Anais was not, nor was Norman, nor some of the others. But Gore, he was a heavyweight, and that for sure. Well, there are scales you know in which these matters are weighed, just such scales as are used to measure gold, and as exacting, in which the measure of our acts is taken.
As you may have discerned, I am still setting the stage for the book which is at the same moment writing itself.
The Orphan Theme.
Her father left, leaving her soul bereft-never to return and so she had searched for him in every shred and shard of man who happened by. Gonzalo, and all the nameless, those whose names were never known, who passed as the night masked as night. They came and there was this sudden excitation, as would have arisen, no doubt, at the birth of the idea that some distinguished thing might this way pass...yes, that had always and ever been it, precisely.

to be continued......

The Book Of Anais - Unedited and In The Raw

 I was lonely.
And so we met.
We strange three quite simply and really met.
So this triangulation which emerged over a period of time gave rise to a reality within which it became apparent that we are all of us one.

This triangulation.
Marguerite, beyond the ether, travelling there, even while contemplating the strands of hair clinging to the sides of a metal wastepaper basket, even there her absence was her presence, and her presence her absence - as we moved from one point to the next...
Anais, this far side of the ether-in the delta of dust-immersed, and what lay beyond the ether existed but as a mental artifice, and a piece of throbbing gristle moving about in the delta of Venus was more real by far.
So the stage is set.

I cannot think of Anais apart from Marguerite, yet with the greatest of ease I envision Marguerite without Anais.
On this fact hangs a tale.

Two morning stars-If I knew what they were named would I know them any more than in the fondness of a gaze?

An obscurantist fable.
She was full of contradictions.
If it did not meet the measure of music, it was not retained.

This would then be at once "The Story Of  The Notebooks" - a treasure trove of Notebooks awaited him at every post and every port. All the scribes were eager to write down all that they had observed, every shade, every nuance, each bright glimmer, smoke rising from a languidly held cigarette...hotel lobbies worldwide were his haunt.
"His name was Legion whose name was Joke."

I am in a suburban neighborhood south of Philadelphia and about one mile from the banks of the Delaware River-I am seated at an orange crate serving as my desk.
"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." It is a thing which amazes my mind that this single saying is the single most often quoted message from Anais to the world. As though she had not said another thing, this one rather pedestrian thing continues to rise up, a monument to her capacity for artifice. So many have said this that Anais has said and said it with greater depth, with a more beauteous lustre, with a richer bundle included in the package, and yet she utters it simply and the world is enchanted. This is her mystery-making capacity. This is who she would have you conceive she is. Ah! Ah Toy!
So it was that the key emerged with which she unlocked the door to the most interior mystery-
Music. Music the doorway to an everyday eternal metaphysic.

In the interim, he was ever this purveyor of exquisitries-even unto the initial beheading in all its spectacular bloody beauty and had held ever fast to the truth of evocation, eschewing any call to describe, for why describe when at hand there lies the thing itself with its word?

to be continued....

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Mary McEvilly Continues To Hold Forth From Paris, 1920

Here you are, Mary - the floor is yours:

" It is only the 
development of the intellect and the power of 
expression which count. Therefore you can understand 
that in this group who are interested in proving to 
earth that intercommunication is practicable, are found 
all who while on earth were interested in it. 

The ancient civilizations developed many profound 
searchers and India sent among us many who are 
extremely versed in the art of separating body and 
intelligence, but the means of finding expression 
lacked until the free, vigorous western world, 
believing firmly in her own destiny, and with calm 
reasoning power developed both by study and 
practice, has put into our hands the force required."

What is she talking about -
do you have any idea you'd share with us?

Dear Heart

Dear Heart -
At last a post from this far outpost. Who knew what distances there might have been in such an exile? Who could have calculated, taken the compass, brought it to bear? Anyway, as I have been thinking of horizons, as I see farther and farther the horizons stretching forth upon horizons, like the infinitude of mirrorings in a suburban station barbershop. So as I thought of the chaos in which it seems we come encased, and the very rare clarity of voice I heard when compelled to visit Mary in Paris recently, the thought just about floored me that hers was the only voice I had heard free of the clatter of the happening universe at large...and thus it was she was free to express universal truths, clearly, concisely, compellingly. I felt a presence as of her nearly asking outright of me to broadcast at least the existence of her voice in this vast emptiness.....and so began complying a few days ago. That is all for now.

 I fancy her on the shore of some cold sea, listening to voices from beyond the sky.