I sat at the piano, shirtless, bedecked in colored beads, crowned with a white horn glued to a
backwards baseball helmet, chirping in The Language of Wonder and Delight. How strange
and distant it seems; how natural it felt back then!
What was I thinking? I guess it was to transform the world through art, to make it beautiful for
the children. I was as delusional as Scriabin with his dreams of the Mysterium, though I lack
his virtuosity and genius.
But as the kids grew up just fine, the world "as is" became sufficient, and my crusading fervor
relaxed into a show of modesty, independence and ironizing humor.
And yet when I hear this music I seem to discern a pair of unsettling eyes peering out at me
from a white mask, from the Before Time of Innocence, calling everything into question again.