They say I was born in New York in 1957; I don't recall, much less where I might have been before that.  Was I sent here (Gnostic Prince of Light) or did I choose to enter the world (endlessly playing, fitfully learning)?  Was it a matter of chance, or do these propositions only seem to exclude one another?

In any case I'm grateful: for boyhood's summer baseball, for Bruckner's 9th Symphony and orange soda, for the blessings of children and the miracle of love shared, and for the freedom to work,  while the simple things  - kindness, humility -  continue to present a challenge.

In the meantime, as I've always believed that the most delightful use of time must be the most important use of time, I continue to make things, just as I wish, unburdened by encouragement and criticism alike.  For I need to express, in an articulate form, my experience of being in the world, without sacrificing the mysterious, until the day I arrive at that place of pelucid clarity that shimmers at the fringes of my mind.