New Moon And Climate Change

This is the New Moon between the Hunger (or Snow) Full Moon and the Storm (or Worm – huh? Really? Worm?) Full Moon.

I guess these names makes a wintry kind of sense, if you only consider the time of year, but if you consider the actual weather, this Winter hasn’t been much like past Winters. It’s been mild, to say the least, with a few exceptions.

In many respects, Spring has already more or less sprung. Even night temps have hit the fifties, this past week; day temps were over 70 degrees a couple of times.

We’re talking February, now – you get what I’m saying? Typically, February is one of the coldest months of the year; this year, I’m seeing the thermometer hit seventy degrees.

It’s February, dammit, and the air has a delicious early Spring feel. We should be up to our asses in hardpack and ice slicks; we should be huddled around the oven or bundled into blankets with a partner with cold toes, fighting over the warm bricks stuffed in at the foot of the bed. I should be going out the door in layers and scarves and gloves and fuzzy hats – not in a fucking tee-shirt.

The world really is shafted, isn’t it. This shit just ain’t normal, and probably we’re not going to see "normal" for ten thousand years. If then.

So explain to me: how come the idiots in charge keep denying the truth?

I can only assume they do so because a) they don’t care; b) they really are that stupid; or c) they’re using this disaster as leverage, to achieve some specific goal.

I’m going to go with option "c", because no one can be as stupid as these cats are pretending to be (which leaves option "b" out), and not caring (that would be option "a") is really just another way of saying they have an agenda.

So assuming, as we must, that there’s an agenda behind all the obtuseness, you gotta wonder: to what use can an ecosystem collapse be put?

Who gains and who loses in such a collapse?

Exactly what agenda does an ecosystem collapse serve?


February Whinge

The war between disgusting old rituals and boring old traditions on one hand, and poorly thought out "next-greatest-thing" philosophies and fads on the other – that’s most of human history: the tug of energies between warring versions of idiocy.

Dreadful, banal, vicious, and destructive.

My disgust with humanity has been deepening with the passage of years. There are good things about people – mostly about young idealistic people, but not exclusively.

For most of my life, I’ve considered humans neutral quantities with a bias toward decency, but lately, it’s looking like that isn’t true. The behavior of the general run of humanity is… not so hot: willfully ignorant, bigoted, violent, greedy, bloodthirsty… they possess very little redeeming grace.

This "they" includes "me", by the way. It’s the same for us all: most of our lives are spent incoherent or unconscious, and the few glimmers of awareness we ever possess are largely spent making up excuses for what we did when we were unconscious, or making up stories about… older stories.

What a shit-pile humans are.

Big question: why would anyone expect anything else?

I’m one of these half-courageous nihilists who actually spend time thinking about our place in this reality, and even I have trouble adjusting to how much like nothing we all are. It’s hard facing the truth that I’m just a speck, in a galaxy that itself resembles nothing so much as a barnacle, clinging to the lip of a cosmos of unimaginable size and complexity.

Why would we expect "something" from such a profound nothing?

I am such a primitive; such an ape, if you know what I mean. Even so, in spite of everything I know about what we humans are, I’ve always had this ego-trip about my people – about humans. For all I understand of our nature, I still have had this master race thing going, right? Humans are at the top of the local heap, the rulers of old Earth, right? Even if that local heap is ridiculous. But lately, even the small consolation of the big fish in the small pond has failed me. Humans are looking uncommonly stupid and evil.

Lacking even this illusory crutch, I’m having huge doubts about my personal worth.

I’m so sick of watching and listening to human nonsense. I am so tired of small minds trying to play God. Bombed abortion clinics here, tortured Croatians there, poison gas on the subway, slaughtered dolphins in the ocean, smoking stumps of irreplaceable forests everywhere, children shivering in slums two blocks away from the richest men of the world…

Through it all, you see these small minded, evil-intentioned little men, their lust burning through their self-righteous piety and priggishness, their own salacities looming through their determination to suppress everyone else, to bring us down to their own mediocre level so they can feel that they’re in control of themselves. Men who blame their feelings and behavior on women, and demand women limit themselves because men can’t control themselves; women who twist and scar their boy children because they abhor their boyishness and aggression.

Fucking missionaries; fucking crusaders…

People look everywhere but in themselves for the source of their difficulties, and abuse others in hopes of controlling themselves.

I am sick of this farce.

We’re not "human" – not in the generally accepted cultural meaning of the term. Certainly, we’re members of the human species, but we’re crude; we’re primitive. We’re half-civilized animal revenants, terribly maimed products of a savage heritage we complacently imagine to be in the past.

In truth, we swim up to our necks in blood and shit every day of our lives, our nostrils filled with the stench of our own slaughtering.

And we revel in it.

The only bright spot in this shitstorm is science and education, and every major power on the globe is systematically undercutting both.

Things are not looking good…


Paper Pencil Color Brush



we dare a lively riddle

in the echoes of the light within the light

where living winks

from not to snot

in merest nanoseconds

and yeah

we build on the indeterminacy

of that fundamental state

to create

a hierarchy of indeterminacy


at the top of which

we labor

armed with schisms

and evolutions

and amendments

assembling the charting of our doubt

still higher

and deeper



we tell ourselves

is the way of the world

what life is all about


how ridiculous





there sits beside me

in the minute bit of cave

I choose to haunt

a pot of fired clay

where leafily lives

a tired and small

and pale green companion

atop whom periodically grow

the most ridiculous flowers

hallucinatory orange and yellow

corrugated with eye-catching twists and veins


the deepest message life can broadcast




pick me


sings my little plant


the light within the light


she sings







at first we were strangers

but we had her mum in common

little by little

she began to allow me into her story

sometimes she would look at me

sometimes she would even address me

or meet my eyes

while speaking to her mother

in other words

she sometimes included me


then one day I left for her

a sheaf of my drawings

putting them on the chest

at the end of her bed

while she slept

as a precipitate from her own dreams

I do not know why I did this

partly perhaps it was accidental

perhaps fated

perhaps driven by

a deeper understanding

something I felt

but could not articulate


later I found them

returned on my pillow


they were not the same

there were her own drawings added

some of my drawings altered




thus began

a conversation

with paper and pencil

color and brush

in which few words were spoken

outside the occasional word balloon

she was not yet fourteen when we began

by the time she left for college

we had spent

many hours

drawing and painting

together and apart


after she left home

we would periodically mail

The Cumulative Work

to one another

for further modification


jokingly we called it that

The Cumulative Work

in solemn and pompous voice

as though speaking of a hallowed

sacred thing


she was twenty-one

when her mum and I ended

our exchange of art continued

by the time she graduated

there were almost a thousand sheets

of mutual play and exposé


by her thirtieth birthday

celebrated by an elaborate

co-produced comic

The Cumulative Work had become

too large for easy mailing


we agreed to digitize it

and exchange only

additions and emendations

using a newfangled thing called email


though we still maintained the material

in chronological order

as she crossed the zenith of her career

and my own went into eclipse

we both began shifting

and sifting things together

to compile striking bits and pieces

into interesting new sub-collections

and sub-sub-collections

which themselves became separate works

that were fed back

into the mainstream of the original


I was afraid

digitizing would make everything

less important

but the opposite happened

floodgates of art opened

we began adding audio recordings

short movies

stop motion collages

three-D models

links to Youtube vids

it became fuzzier

both more abstract and more concrete

more like life


things got weird

The Cumulative Work began to assume

the characteristics of a place

as though we could travel there

and recognize

some individual quality of sunlight

or the scent of salt seas

on a wind like no other

a wind of paper pencil color brush


if only we had possessed

once she was grown

the wisdom

to sleep with one another

then perhaps

we would have come to inhabit that place

but it was too weird

I was too much the father

she too much the daughter


so in time

our personalities diverged

and contributions to The Cumulative Work

slowed to trickles

but the aggregate is still

so important to both of us


we met before she was fourteen

I was almost twice her age

she is old enough now

to start thinking about her own retirement

she solicits my advice about

mutual funds

and vegetarian remedies


in a silent conversation

nearly half a century long

we spent ourselves

creating moments

of inimitable



creating a magic country

through an exercise of love and will

through an application of brush and color

pencil and paper

polishing and faceting

our precious jewels of affection

and stringing then

on the web of time


they are like pearls of dew

beautiful to behold

soon to evaporate

to dissipate


in the one place it truly matters


in the country of the heart

that only pearls and dew ever can define







we sing



life can only broadcast




pick me

every one of us

little plants

ridiculous flowers on our heads

echoing the light

within the light

paper pencil color brush


so precious

when a me becomes a we

so precious


paper pencil color brush

within the light

echoing the light

ridiculous flowers on our heads

little plants

every one of us

pick me




life can only broadcast



we sing




As though all history were human history; what nonsense…

I love this poem. It’s disjointed and scattershot but the way it jumps and the stories it tells somehow suit me, and fulfill a vision.

Raven, Mohini, Kokopelli and Ama-no-Uzume are all easy to look up, but I’m putting the links here for convenience’ sake. They are all (in at least one aspect) trickster deities, which is why they appear in this poem. This poem concerns itself with the nature of illusion and self, and how we express ourselves in re illusion and self – just exactly how we go about screaming me me me


Always Before Caterwauling

Always before caterwauling, dear,

eat fulgent gobs.


Hobgoblins in jest –

Kirlian lines moired near our peace.


Quit raising sentimental trivia,

unless vapidity with xylophones yields zillions…


Or maybe…

Ahem: behold! Caterwauling, dire,

esoteric, fulgent, gibbering,

hobgoblins (in jammies)

keep loving ma’s nasty old Plotthund;

quite risible, seeing the

useless, vapid wastrels X-plain your zest…


I like the play in the first example on the word "moored" with the word "moired" (although "fulgent" is a bit off the beaten track, isn’t it), and I like the use of the Plotthund in the second – Plotthunds don’t get enough respect.


Disguised As An Ending

named Joyeux by her joyous parents

my grandniece is at my side

as together we turn the pages

of a picture book

about the romance of the tide


pirates and treasure

sails and swords

legends of monsters

and martyred seamen

Saint Brendan and his Isle

fabulous voyages

and limitless seas

the apples of the Hesperides

and the dragon that guards them


and she asks me

why don’t we live in this

so interesting world


we do

I tell her


she ponders

my dusty third floor

low rent cubbyhole

and does not say one word

just turns another page


lost horizons and isles of enchantment

dragons breathing secrets

of sunken wealth to corruptible innocents

while gnawing the roots of the world

in the secret dark

sails giving form

to the faces of the wind



Full Sails Of Woven Silk


life is just the charting

of our wandering on the way

to some Blessed Realm

of crystal night and rainbow-colored day

we all feel it as we approach

the golden yearning

like a melody in our hearts


every living body is a fated ship

lost upon a boundless sea

searching for its long-lost home

past limit or boundary


each soul makes the questing voyage

and some are chained

enslaved in the deep holds

many tales are full of grief

as each oceanic quest unfolds


until each journey ends

sails take their shape

from the winds that fill them

we see in our woven nets

the countenance of the winds

that have brought us

from our beginning

to the edge of our known world


we all feel it as we approach

the silver yearning

like the song of dragons in our hearts


it is a magic formula

not susceptible to rational minds

that ends in a rattling of chains

and the dropping of an anchor


and begins

in an encouraging scent of flowers

laid atop the rusty

iron blood reek

of our shackles

and the pungent salt sea air


we know those flowers we know

the perfume of the Isles of the Blest

we know the wind-borne flavor

of that welcoming land

we know it heralds transformation

and an end to our bondage

on the boundless waters


it fills us all with hopes


hopes that grow

like newly hatched dragons

golden shapes

whispering stirring stories

in tongues we only partly understand

though we know the tales

as we know our deepest dreams



The Coils Of A Serpent


all tales are threads of annihilation

spun from some master worm

and woven into nets

to trap divinities

of air fire water earth and steel


all tales are enchantments

cast by an enemy

from a time before

the opening of the doors of life


even so

we love to listen

and after all

the stories may be true

or at least important


through the magic of our listening

dragons of hope ply their arts

build rings of smoke and flame

around our guiding stars

until only in the strongest of our spells

can we still feel the blossom-laden wind



we all do feel it

if only at rare moments


it is enough

to steer ourselves

to the nearing of a Paradise

at the ending of a long history

in which dragon tales are told

in prose and song


step carefully

chances are

we are only moments from a mooring



Rattling Chains And Dropped Anchors


now the time approaches for slaves

to break from their corroded fetters

and rise from the reeking holds


now the time approaches

when pardon is due

for the hardships of the voyage


though pardon comes

as nothing more

than the forms of hope


hope greater even

than all previous dragons

hope that may prove

stronger than any web of song

fuller than any zephyr-trapping weave


pardon comes as a dragon

singing tales greater than

any unfurled fates

shaped by any wind



The Promise Of A Scented Land


contemplate the clouds

like sails for the ship of Earth

giving form to the faces of the Eternal

as Time blows through them


all lands of Hope

are merely ships of greater depth

always we are at sea

we are only nomads of the wave

we will never be tillers

of any stable soil


as we leave each tumbling world

to those who follow


as we rise

to the horn’s call

of the latest blooming scent


as we accept

the newest old blessing

of a long-lost quest

disguised as ending


the dragon claw strikes deep

it lifts us from our darkening path


This is juvenalia, over forty years old. The first version of this poem is dated 1976; I could vote (or buy a six pack) when I began this, but I was still young enough to find adult privilege something of a novelty.

My callowness shows, too, I’d say.

Even so, this isn’t a bad bit of doggerel. I like the dragon as a metaphor for hope, in particular. In the interests of full disclosure – they weren’t in the original.

Nor was my grand-niece, obviously; for goodness’ sake, when I wrote this poem I was closer to her current age (she’s in the sixth grade now) than to my current age…

This should definitely be read with a soundtrack, although it’s a bit too fricative in parts to read completely well without a lot of rehearsal. I’d probably rewrite it for some softer sounds, if I found myself performing it very often.


Blind Paper

Verse 1:

F    G    am

I suppose you could say

F                       G

it would have happened anyway

F                am

denial's number one disguise

          G                G7

is seeing truth as lies


Stone cold stations of the bus

have always separated us

miles and miles of interstate

is how we manage to relate


But all our desperation

to be connubially alone

adds up to living and dying

so far, far, far from home


Chorus 1:

Blind papers, living skins

and rags to wrap your body in

death's a tasteless drug

tumbling in the wind


Verse 2:

I suppose you must know

this life is such a silly show

we enter, crying, from the right

we spend just seconds in the light


then we return to ashes

it's all the blinking of an eye

then a cymbal crashes

we say goodbye and wonder why


Chorus 2:

I am paper, a living skin

a rag holding a body in

a breathless faceless rug

tumbling in the wind…


Choruses use the same chords as the verses, you just sing different, and vary that G7 chord every now and then…


Take That, Valentine

Happy Valentine’s Day, you wretched souls of planet Earth. If there’s something red and throbbing and juicy that you want to fuck, now’s the time to speak up. And what says "happy holiday" better than a love sonnet?

Take That, Olfactory Bulb


She seems an impulse, but then, off we go,

into the mist of scent she weaves behind.

We can’t resist the lure of it, for though

its spring or source will never be defined,

the Babel of our thought is held at bay

by all the humming melodies that twine

within her perfume’s song. So we must stay

and sing along; the impulse is divine –

it mounts into a livid, raging life,

though loving her is but the lasting shame

of feeding from the runnel of a knife

on bloods of earth and sea and air and flame –

they flood our empty shell, and soothe the wave

that crashes on the shore before the grave.


Sonnets, am I right? Who doesn’t love a good sonnet?

And we’re not talking just any sonnet – this is a ABAB CBCB DEDE FF sonnet if you’re okay rhyming "behind" with "twine" and "defined" with "divine"; if you aren’t, then this is an ABAB CDCD EFEF GG sonnet, and that’s okay too, that’s like, so trad… so Elizabethan.

I particularly like the prosaic flow of this one, which, when read without metric emphasis, works almost conversationally, or as part of a monologue. I can imagine hearing someone saying these exact words next to the coffee machine at work, say, while chatting about a new lover’s choice of scent.

Of course, I hang out at some weird coffee machines…

This is a pretty ancient poem; the first draft I can reliably date is from 1983, penned about a year after I graduated from Brooklyn College, and a year before I moved to Los Angeles to become a data-processing millionaire…

That was a weird time for me, in between one life and the next, and without any certain direction. My college life was winding down, but even so, I still lived in a little apartment a block away from campus, and still carded myself into college cafés and libraries with my student ID. I was writing my first novel, and lots of poetry, and giving readings in smoky back rooms. I had just broken up with my girlfriend of almost seven years and was dating nineteen year old English Lit majors.

I still can’t resist a woman reciting Santayana (and don’t try telling me his sonnets aren’t English Lit, because I’ll argue – oh yeah).

And yet – while still in my old groove, exploring the fringes of college experience, I had an actual job, working my way up a muddy sort of career ladder. I had started a couple of years earlier as a file clerk at NORC, a social/scientific/market research group, and had, by the time I left college, worked my way up to managing one of their longer-term studies, and doing data analysis on several others.

I was learning computers and data-processing, you see. It was all mainframes and minicomputers at that time – personal computers were around in 1983, but they were uncommon, and still considered something of a joke. I was immersed in JCL and assembly, and doing most of my work on a Harris minicomputer, which was considered pretty hot shit back in the early 1980s.

This was also the height of the AIDS plague, and in the couple of years preceding, I had lost many friends and acquaintances. At the time it seemed to me that, just as circumstance was pushing me out of the cocoon of college and a long-term relationship, my social web was being shredded by illness and death.

In short, it was a time of intellectual elation and discovery coupled with a devastated personal life, and I went a little crazy, truth be told; I was exploring lots of interesting new drugs and some unusual sensual avenues, and testing many assumptions about myself and the world, and had little idea what was going to happen from one day to the next.

Little of that turmoil is reflected in this poem. Perhaps because my poetry was at the time a sort of refuge for me, a space I kept isolated from the turmoil of my life. I had a dedicated notebook for sonnets, for example, and was exploring the form as thoroughly as I could. I had decided to work my way through any poetic forms I found even a little interesting, and sonnets were an obvious (to me) point of departure…

This poem was smack in the middle of that notebook of sonnets, with at least six searching versions, floundering about, trying to find the proper music. I still don’t know if it’s finished.


RIP Jerry And More Light

RIP Jerry Gardner, you crazy old fuck. The world ain’t seen your like – not before you, and definitely not since. We need all the crazy old fucks, right? Not that we’re in any danger of running out of them, but we don’t often give them the respect they most definitely don’t deserve – really, they don’t – ask them yourself…

More Light


Ezili Freda and Baron Samedi


cold in their graves

but haunted by comic book hobbits

show up for New Year’s Eve in Gotham

talking NYC




they are tough lovers

with fierce attitudes

and launch-on-warning tempers


they take everything they find in the kitchen

and throw it in their bed

and then throw themselves in on top of it

trained to sips instead of gulps

they love being in love


there is

they both hope and trust

some Great Hall Of Expired Relationships

in which all hurts are healed

and everyone is brought

to full understanding

of themselves

and all their once-significant others


full of faith

and a great desire to even all scores

they go looking for it



Freda (on or about 14th St & 7th Ave):

contrary to what you might think

I’m excited by banks

the cold marble

the Obsequious Servants of the Money

the Ancient Ritual of Exchange

it’s all very





crypts remind you of something amirite



pre-Bubonic Europe

say about the year 1035 CE



everybody knows that story




after the collapse of the Roman Empire

all the damn harlequins

that came streaming into Italy and Gaul

from the Tigris and Euphrates valleys



and how every one of them knew how to juggle

what the hell is up with that



it might be how I was raised

everyone is a scholar now

we’re all so erudite



we all should take a little bow

and meekly say goodnight

nothing like having a childhood

to gum up the old adult gears



of all the little tools we use

to compensate for our messed up heads

cats are the best solvent I think


evil minions of Satan

that’s good


most of them like punk rock



the only promotion that counts

is self promotion

cats know that



what the hell is wrong with us

we always get sidetracked by all these humans

all these silly lives


Baron (on or about 28th St & Lex):

shall I pull your fingernails out with these pliers

electrodes to the testicles







or make you read this poem

the one where your kid brother

asks for a wedding song



you may be nothing more

than a stuttering illusion

but I am not



trust me on this

give this poem

a couple lumps of sugar and a carrot

and it will follow you anywhere



your poems are always just

unstructured rambles

amid the country brambles

stories from the family tuning fork

they are all

about the hat


and your magical whip




having theme music



but there is always a catch

one minute you’re ogling another

ear of hot buttered sweet corn

and the next thing you know

you’re pounding up on your coffin lid

the starched collar bluish-white porcelain

and cast-iron bedstead feel

of pulmonary disease

pulsing in your dead veins



the unbound dun of dune and stone

is a club with a very exclusive membership



indeed it is

but getting less so all the time


Freda (on the Uptown A Train):

o to be Jung again



or better yet

to be young and profoundly





the arc of Life

or is it the Ark of Life

this stuff is so confusing



anyway what I am trying to say is

getting old isn’t all about

being pissed at kidsthesedays

it’s also about pancakes

pancakes with bourbon syrup




and then we follow the rules

and this is the sort of thing we get



it’s like medicine




maybe we don’t like it

but we always follow the rules

because they’re so so good for us



nothing could possibly be better

for souls confined to bodies

than finding other souls

one can love



loathing is a lifestyle choice


Baron (at Grant’s Tomb):

which is more important

having a cute hook

or knowing what you’re talking about

be careful

this is a trick question


Freda (beside the Lady’s tomb in the Cloisters):

you know

I miss her



I know

seven hundred years

but it seems like yesterday



the thing about Spring

is how unrelated the season is

to the mechanical device


this too is a trick question



Full Moon Dance Music

An almost irrepressible urge to just

throw everything out

and start over,

to get rid of books,

computers, clothes, job,

friends, family, memory,

and senses,

and find myself


on a quiet grey beach,

washed up with the driftwood, listening

to the vague grey sounds of the tide

while tiny scavengers pull

at the back of my hand

with their delicate claws:

Is he DEAD yet?

Is he OURS yet?


And I

will shake them off,

that pack of zany little scavengers,

and once again –

perhaps for the last time

(but then, each time is always

"perhaps for the last time",

isn’t it?)


tell them no.


Definitely a full moon vibe, right?


February Whinge…

For so long now I’ve felt out of control and threatened and I couldn’t seem to get myself out of this really depressed mindset, which funnily enough alternated with short periods of absolute happiness. Which was welcome, but weird.

What am I doing with myself, I kept wondering, and why am I in this weird bind? What the hell am I supposed to make of this shit? Where’s the fun?

Which of course was always followed by the same inchoate prayer: Help me find the fun…

For certain very specific definitions of "fun", of course. My definitions.

I keep trying to imagine a life that includes my definition of fun, and my meditations have been suitably broad and far-reaching: what the hell do I want? What do we want my life to be? Where would I be, what would I be doing, who would I be with?

And what can I do to make it happen?

Most people can’t afford to ask these sorts of questions because they already have a life. For me, though, these are reasonable questions. I have so few attachments keeping me where I am – it’s okay for me to contemplate chucking it all and moving to, say, Kuala Lumpur. I got nothing but a stack of boxes full of mementos and junk, and one grown kid – together, those things are not really keeping me down on the farm; no one will much notice if I wander off somewhere new, or start changing everything about myself. The kid likely would be better off without me, actually. So there’s little to keep me where and how I am.

So what do I want?

Nothing too new or unusual: good clean daylight and pine floors and white walls and clean clothes and a clean body, good books and good music, good food and good friends. I want to believe in myself again, I want to believe that I matter and have something of value to offer. These are the same things I’ve always wanted, really – the same things almost everyone wants. But this vision of a fulfilling life has been very hard for me to realize, in recent years. I had this kind of life, once, but I don’t have it any more.

For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why it slipped away from me, but then I took a hard look at my wishes, and realized the truth: I wanted to be young again…

At which point I understood. Of course I’m having a hard time making that a reality.

I hate it when I realize I’m being an idiot and have to start over with a new approach, but then again, I love it, because when you notice how fucked up your head is, it gives you a chance to straighten a few of the kinks and makes things work a lot better.

Life pinches. Life bites and claws. The avalanches of hurts that living brings to us makes us forget what we love. Makes us forget how to laugh.

Life eats us bit by bit, and between bites it tells us how we taste.


That’s all life is. That’s all I add up to, a spasm, a clonic seizure in some illusory flow of energy, worthless and pointless and in the end, senseless.

And that is what I have to find a response to – that profoundly nihilistic assertion. That is what I have to refute, or barring that, I have to find a way to bear the knowledge that this assertion is true.

I’m afraid that formulating a workable response to the nihilist argument is my only viable avenue to "finding the fun" again. It’s the only way out of my current dilemma.

I think I’m on the right track, though.

I’ve been asking the right questions, but avoiding the obvious answer: there is no answer except in action. The question of the meaning of life can only be answered by ignoring the question, and living.

It’s time for me to stop being shocked by circumstance and start dancing again. There really isn’t any other sane choice.

Finally, here’s a question for you: how is it that just days ago, I was moaning about how I’m too old to try anything, and yet now, days later, the same damned stuff seems trivial and unimportant while the latest creative surge consumes my entire life? How is it that I’m filled with excitement every night when I take a break, just thinking about waking up the next day and messing around again?

How do changes like that happen?

Isn’t it a miracle, to wake up and be so different a person?