dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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She saw me off to work filled with coffee & autumnal root soup looking as good as I could for the present gig, but unable to resist a complaint about the jacket, she cut loose threads off of at the edge of a sleeve. No stagnation. No reversal of Time. Rhododendron, a calliope in November wind. Bare trees drumming the surface of their landscape. Clouds, the sun & sea’s children, playing tag & hide & seek. Bach had something like twenty kids. Joy & Beauty in color & words. If this were Franz Kline it would be three black strokes of thick brush resulting in thin lines of individual horse hairs abutting lacunae of primed canvas visible to a trained eye. Or Keith Jarrett, lengthy space held & prolonged between notes, piano foot pedals unafraid to add gritty percussive mechanics into the improvised score. Sun on water, now. Lone boat slowly against current, distant, reminiscent of Li Po rolling over Yangtze.



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