My ability to get any sleep has deranged like a spiderweb on LSD, but just a moment ago in the street it was thinly but distinctly snowing. I turned on WHRB and got Michael Tippett's A Child of Our Time (1944). I still can't believe Opera Boston folded right before they would have staged the Mozart-out-of-Eliot Hermetic crack of The Midsummer Marriage (1955). I can't believe in impending Thanksgiving.
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- 1: I am bound to these shores, I'll be bound till the end
- 2: Wish everyone could hear when she sings
- 3: All the ghosts, some old, some new
- 4: I cannot feel it, the veil of black, a fine spray of white paint
- 5: I make sure there are hidden messages in my work
- 6: I'll stay out until my mind is like a clear glass
- 7: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 8: Pilgrimage, private life, mortality
- 9: My dream house is a negative space of rock
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