You know little about me, and neither do I as it turns out. So what else is there to do but paint in large letters and muted tones the sketch and volume of my life, so standing circa Now?
Being a musician, surely you understand ebb and flow; transition, development; cadence. Surely you see these, too, played out, writ larger, lifewise; rising, tension, dissonance and resolution; change. Surely you have traced in quietest reverie the large hand of God as it, too, saws its own bow strokes out against the resined fibers of the world; looked into the orange sky at evenhour and seen Grace, tenuously gifted, playing. Old Keppler in his pointed beard could see it turn, elliptical, and traced the contours; ...Giordano Bruno; "Musical Spheres" some said, or Harmony; or maybe just old Fortune wheeling and dealing, tuning out of tune.
Anyways and always: dynamics; change. Vibrations, cyclical; the recollected and re-stranged. And the whole endeavor, like a symphony of places, moving...turning...taking turns, angelical on up to all high pale Heaven, glowing glory.
Ah, but I digress. Surely, as musicians, we can see the Movements and progressions, as in music, shift in trees, in the seasons, and in our light frail beings; shift, and make some newness breathe through shorn life. So has it mine in me, and I have lost a season (well, lost thirty); but, new seasons turn! new passages develop on the sheets and reams of leaves the Cellist reads, no?
I've bought a bus. I've named her Abbey. And, like a wooden temple lathed in metal, she will be my monestary, edged in black gilt; engined monastic cloister, where, under pinelight and fireshadow, I will read the mystics and their journeys; chart the chiliocosms, counting lotuspetals sprinkle-showered down by a billion bodhisattvas, smiling; peer into consciousness--my consciousness, and yours, and Everybody's, Cellist--and will feel the old Earth grow inward, lose my body on a mind mountain, look through fog, find it again laid up in the pure Void, put it on, laugh, wiggle, wonder; wander through a million nebulas, and the Great Universal Lattice of Eyes, kaleidoscopic, peering up and everywhere into the Enigma like a giggle...
Then I will rise from Lotusland, and pull the break, and screech out of whatever canyonbed or creek-silted canopy I'd parked beside, and wheel towards Life. Life. Drink dark craft potions brewed in hipster taphouse hollows, meet old painters in Montana, harvest garlic on a WOOFer's beat in Appalachia, steal Pinocchio's nose. Who knows?
All these, friend, "plotted and set down." But we shall see. For now, a close. And this first letter but an opening, to set the stage for more, and eye the open, turning road. My diary of the next chapter starts.
For now, friend--matter-less and mostly-imagined half-projected Anima, dear Cellist--I must end. More coming. But