. . . so of course I'm working in the garden, in the heat and the wetness, the perspiration I'm meaning, and the thorns of life, or thorny desire, or whatever thorns they be, squeezing my heart like Jesus himself in the garden of his agony or St. Francis fighting off one temptation or another to be sure, I mean, obviously, I'm thinking that it's Bloomsday, and I need to write a piece.Well then I wrote a song for the day already but I couldn't seem to get around to recording it in time to send it out the friends of mine who might be that true-hearted that they'd give it a listen and I mean a real listen not just load it down to their i-pill and swallow it later at some leisure that we all know is not coming any time soon.
Sure it's work enough to bring Aphrodite herself or that lovely deer you saw in the field or even the poor thing of little dead cardinal bird being devoured by worms even as I discovered it, I say hard enough to conjure these right here among us in stone or metalwork or with crushed color on canvas. But how much harder with nothing but syllables, and stops, and moans (no doubt the source of every vowel the world has ever known) and memories of birdsongs and, of course, the whole damned history of making, and breaking, and love, and grief, and overwhelming beauty, to bring, that is, something like lightning or ecstasy or hope or even blessed discontent into the world from something so light and tenuous and, yes of course I won't argue about it, maybe ridiculous.
And good company you'd be with.