Sidestep anomalies, and proliferate. There is room in this world for more philosophies than are dreamt of. The patient sage avoided talkies, artlessly. Now he grooves to the Grateful Dead. This is renaissance reborn when the archetypes dance across millennia uncaring of their textual relevance, without benefit or need of guru.
Here is the weary world where fathers were first mothered and long before the split from the image of the All. Upanishad Self spits out the splintered whole, where we the weeping residue of our former glory wander mourning in the light, our eyes tight to shut in the grim darkness.
That night, I sense him tweedy and pipe-smoked, melting with the Deadheads, realizing exhuberance, going beyond beyond. Oh, to have held his hand, muttered Om with him and seen the twinkle dance in his eyes that night. And, of course, we do.
24 April - 4 June 2004
