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.