this morning i'm hanging out with musical memories from youth and examining the wrinkles of my hands. it's not that i'm old--i'm not; rather, what interests me is the disconnect between the ideas of the music and my trajectory in life, for just ten years or so ago life seemed limitless, possibilities were everywhere. now, boundaries seems to surround us. perhaps i was overly optimistic or was viewing life through the myth of western cultural imperialism. when i look around now, i see pluralism, after having slowly reemerged since being covered over by the "renaissance," being pushed back into darkness. i see the tidy--perhaps clean--cultural products that we are creating as the products of ego, the products of minds so inwardly focused as not to notice even a real context.
yet, outside my window, the sun is streaming down onto ash leaves beginning to yellow with the season. a cat is purring in my lap, and in the background, etta james is singing "a sunday kind of love." perhaps as a contingent being, i should not take life so seriously.
yet, outside my window, the sun is streaming down onto ash leaves beginning to yellow with the season. a cat is purring in my lap, and in the background, etta james is singing "a sunday kind of love." perhaps as a contingent being, i should not take life so seriously.
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