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.