Those dreams in which one falls,
Uncontrollably hurtling
Toward what seems like certain death, or at the very least
Grievous injury,
Like a freeway insect making an abstract blotch upon a windshield,
Are supposed to mean something.
You like to dance to the music of your body
Unaware and drowning in bliss,
Certain somehow that all will turn out as it ought to,
If only in a dream.
When my friend from the rainforest visited the city, I couldn’t make him understand why the most important people in the tallest buildings were the most important people. No, I told him, they were not able to hunt or fish or grow their food, or build a hut from grass, or communicate with the spirit world.
I couldn’t make him understand what the most important people actually do to make themselves more important than the rest…
Writer, poet, artist, improviser, lyricist, former television personality, and generally decent person.
Two new vocal recordings — one from a likely source, the other not — remind us that genuine vocal artistry brings delight not quite like anything else. The human voice, malleable and expressive and colorful, vibrates with genuine (and profound) feeling on “Close Up,” by Sara Serpa, the celebrated singer, known for her angelic tone,...
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