She holds her hands before her face So she cannot see, but feels instead. Her open palms take and gratefully receive Without the barrier of sight. She grows in a sequestered place, Where the dark is warm, Where laughter creeps along the floor And winds through her fingers in ribbons; Where, eyes closed and bathed…
Dear Plato, Beauty is the beginning… Sometimes, I wonder about beauty. Beauty must be what God is, what heaven will be to our senses. Different people perceive beauty differently, but for me, the most profound occurs in chiaroscuro–the interplay of shadow and light. I thrill at the moment dissonance blooms into harmony. Chills whisper down…
I want my words to be cold, icy clear, and hard as diamond, not melting all over the place like a pile of slops. I have been laden with responsibility, you see. Whatever I say must love truth – not just tolerate or include or concede truth, but reach at it like a drowning man…
A couple months ago, I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Unfortunately, I had very little money, no car, access only to unreliable tourist buses, and, on top of all that, no smartphone to navigate. My plans ran amuck, and my brother and I careened around the entire city before we finally got to the art…