Category Archives: metaphysical

He otherwise shrinks away from uttering

…he confesses to God, as the being nearest to him, his most secret thoughts, his deepest wishes, which he otherwise shrinks away from uttering. …Prayer is the self-division of man into two beings,–a dialogue of man with himself, with his heart….–Ludwig Feuerbach

Ah. Let my hands do for me. Let heart understand. Not a light-door, but sing. Wonder at the window or a dream

on its backside. A dream on its back, lengthening.

You understand trees. Or sound made through hair of pine. Catch. In teeth

Again I ask, morning, tell it

again. This morning, my hands did

my body. Took a train through deserts. You sought me, in wonder at the window, pressed

noses, ours, to reflection of heart, my song. Not a light.

Through the door! You said. Threw

your backside against me. Catch again.

This morning, my dream in script

of howls. My hands did this. To my body,

I said. Unhinge.

When I spoke to You it was secret, again,

in heart.

I know. But follow

hands. Sage birds. Caught in windows. Beat to get out.

That’s your heart.

I know.

Last full moon, two nights ago, lengthening dream’s sage

birds from pine-strands.

You called it “my hair”

I know.

And morning did my hands to body-me

between light-doors, and You

unhinge birds to backside me into song, trains.

I know.

Let heart understand,

You’re, Ah.

Let my hands, You love,

Ah, do my body,

Ah

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As if I held You

As if I held You,

as if I knocked,

as if light had hands,

doors had tongues.

And this moment–

joy in the desert.

And my skin–

Your sadness, sung.

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Light, what will remain of my body, talks

Light, what will remain of my body, talks
about You. It keeps saying,

learn each other–Today
I asked a stranger

if she was like me, did she
speak into a tape recorder

love-notes to herself to keep
from diving, driving, into

the shale-pain of road.
When she answered, Yes–

Light, the earth, let me
live on the ground again.

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She and the Other Address Her Sickness, Her Own and Otherwise

Her Address–

Not only was the not only present, I was not my only self, but the self that only had just begun to be herself–and that’s when the not only present had itself become itself.

They will say, I hate to admit it, but I liked her writing better before she got sick.

But the honesty!

No one wants that, and the potholes, the god-feared look of “having”

one wants to wish their lives lasted long enough to drink again

and again, you asked if I looked up, hooked my leg on a fence-post, saw skies

more alarmed at having been a sky

and not one of us, or my eyelash–no, I have looked

only for things in pockets, such as your watch, or a canary-feather

left over when on New Years so many things had children, minutes

apart—lovers lost their case-by-case arguments, dropped to see

whose kiss they were laughing into– what other ladybugs might be living

in so-and-so’s teeth. I told myself to call you

but friend, undo yourself and then get back to me.

Reflection of Other–

Understand, nothing she understood was mistaken for taking
the understanding from your hands, but understandably,
so-and-so was quite upset at what she understood, mistakenly.

Her Letter–

To answer your question, no I never learned about perrineals.

Though my bay window may, if I’m lucky, hold a thousand each spring in its eye-socket,

Lord, you should have seen the underthings they’ve got–perinnials–

root-toes two metres long, I swear it! Yours, S–

The Other Questions–

Did she write most days, or, when feeling ill, did she want other things, say

cantelope in the sunshine–did Otherthings take note of her

exact choice of words–mathematics?

I heard numbers–as lovers– occupied her bay window– ants on a biscuit, jammed

with honey and other hack-eyed-creature-curated

-sweetness.–Well, back when so-and-so took a hobby breaking into hives, I suppose that’s possible–

 

suppose mathematics and hive-construction go hand-in-hand, tortoise and mouse, that sorta thing.


On the Corner, Remembering Her Walk–

Perennials? No, not in this shop, love. Take yourself
down to the corner, I have a friend there named so-and-so.
Mad about things like that. Catch her
stone-like at the bay window most days,
equations teetering in her hands, like so–

Her Address, pt. II–

Before the sickness was sick of itself, her self was sick of the itself it became in herself–and it was itself only when most like a self that was herself, sick.

Reflection of Other II

Before she got sick, she stuck things in her blue jeans–

pockets filled with letters from them, or so-and-so,

a phone bill from the time minutes belonged to an ex,

before the plane-ness of mornings left its handle of jack

on the corner as a reminder that soon, Nothing had itself hooked

to the back of her head like lamp-things, but dark.

When she got sick, Nothing crept itself inside her to quit–

not a monastery–her body– but can it be? she asked,

can the wholeness of everything be under the weather and into my

pockets–underness and overness understood

by a solar system that’s ready for its nonchildren, red-dwarf by red-dwarf,

can hospitals be belligerent, drunk, piss themselves before they love themselves and give all to God?

Her Address, pt III–

2) in a list like this, I’d say the only thing, mind you, that minds itself into a whirl is a friend who took herself too seriously, called the opposite its counterpart
and I, well, she called me crazy and understandably, for I

snipped up her favorite clothes because I wanted to,

and the slumber party was boring,

and in moments such as those, hidden, taking a secret like that tastes like steel,

shot up like angel-joy, through the circular of girl-wholeness.

That dress, well, I wanted it. But instead, cut holes in it.

Laugh about that now, angel-gods, woman-god, watch

I’ll tear myself into that memory and be done with it. If I could warn every girlfriend now–

how land-hurt their body can be by me–myself a grounded plane–sick

understand this: under the lichen-hold–a man I owned once, but swallowed.


The Other Reflects Upon Reflection of Her–

You’ll be tempted, I’m sure, to categorize her symptoms, like boxes of glow-worms–
and shouldn’t we all stand here, tempted to catch her outing herself out–
land-hold-under-things—what Dr really knows the mind,
but to punch-hole charts, you’ll be tempted, boxed glow-worm, you are.

Further from Other–

Noted: alleluias in the morning–

Perennials in the bay window, scathing

at the site of the canary, held between

her mouth–understand–her mouth

carried sailors to God and back again

though her body wore itself into thin

paper–might as well called home,

as in a horse’s eye-bone, coal

twisted round an underness, pissed

it couldn’t glimpse into itself

before learning the mathematics of hungry.

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Reimann hypothesis, 1,3,7 and: My Cosmos of Consciousness

I have thirty minutes left to sit here, dazed as though under the influence of some drug. Technically, I guess, I am under the influence of what is called 1,3,7-trimethylxanthine. I picked this name of the various tags for caffeine because of the numbers. 1, 3, 7. And to my surprise, 1,3,7 stand, grouped, laughing, colored differently, sometimes male, sometimes female.

I have thirty minutes until Borders Cafe closes and I have to pack up my books, leave, drive home.

In a haze, as a few more people sit, conversing. When I drink latte after latte, the voices become fuzzier, tickle things, grow as if under heat-lamps, little pipe-cleaner legs and carbonate my brain. I feel less lonely wrapped in the voices which I usually cannot distinguish in a crowed, but at least are not my own subjective creation–when I go home, it is simply the cats, a drip of the faucet and my own world of laughter or knot-bodied voices, buzzed in through the door of silence. Sometimes I love them, but sometimes I simply want the no-self to enter. The silence so rare that perhaps only antelope or mountain goats know it intimately, standing off a jagged cliff-side, whipped by God into white-noise.

I’ve read bits of things. Only bits. Not much to claim for the hours. An essay on the Year Million, what might remain. One scientist claims that only laughter and numbers will remain and I, looking around, see a herd of laughter in this one room alone, pre-teens with coffee, sweaters, cell-phones, laughing. Numbers, too. Cris-cross tiles, the corners of books, telling secrets, bumping page numbers and word-counts. In fact, if I stood in the middle of the cafe, waved my hands around, shushed and wiped the floor, all that would stand in my memory of each moment here would be corners of things, indistinguishable laughing.

Among the words I’ve managed to store, a few quotes stick to my shoulder blades.

“Within each of us a cosmos of consciousness unfolds temporarily, a subjective universe develops.” –Thomas Metzinger

Dangerously, stumbling over mismatched mushroom-moments, tangled in our own created-rooms. Just a bit ago, I was reading essays on the Year Million, and a friend of mine popped up in an Instant Message. He wanted to tell me of his travels to Paris. I, of course, grew jealous immediately of his jet-lagged future, luggage-heavy walking, possibly, toward Champ-Elise, imagined myself in his place, gazing up at the Rose Window, twirling myself into Mass, wrapped in a language unfamiliar enough to dazzle and disorient.

No, no. He was going to Paris in his MIND. How? Why?

Friend: To follow up on a lead from 200 years ago”

Me: Explain

Friend: Have to see an old friend.
last time we met was during the revolution.

Me: Ah, I see
To discuss strategies?

Friend: No. To discuss what happened in 1917 after we met and before I went to Ardenne
and died a few weeks later.
It’s been at least 90 years since we last had coffee…lol

Meanwhile, I am trying to wrap my head around Reimann hypothesis and how, perhaps, it relates to Chaos Theory because, out of a garden grow weeds, and though the wind tossed the weeds this way and that, perhaps a pattern emerges, maybe just in their root systems and yet to be known by consciousness of man as we stand above-ground on all things and at most times, save brief moments of mystical or otherwise unquestionable otherness.

(Once, I tumbled off my horse as we ran across a caleche pit, down and through the clumps, her hooves had way with God’s skirt. But then the earth opened up a bit, pulled one of her hocks into the gut and she tripped. As I tumbled, things once upside leaned their heads so far back, the blood-of-the-world got drunk and started singing to me: Shannon! Shannon! Shannon! And in the Shhhh’s, my temples landed, black-and-gold-stringed-sky spilled. When I came to, my horse idly breathing, bridle broken, I thought I saw numbers tied together in the sky, linked in a way that made sense. And for a moment, the world could have ended and I would have been laughing, happy to know the thread-of-things.)

“Within each of us a cosmos of consciousness” and, in a single mind, an untraveled escape for anyone standing at the doorway of another’s experience.

Random moments break in. I am writing, high on caffeine, about numbers and laughter, trying to read at the same time, while interjected by a friend of mine’s discussion about his mental trip to Paris. And who am I to say this trip will not happen, back in time, for him. Consciousness allows us to create fast-tracks to different cities, landscapes, worlds. He is, I presume, sitting somewhere, in front of a computer, possibly drinking a gin and tonic, or a soda. I am in Borders, enjoying a latte, staring off into space. Two points meet, intercept. Numbers created. 1,3,7.

An opossum walks across my mind’s screen, stops, stares, continues on.

My mental-opossum has a snow white face and black eyes and reminds me of an owl. In fact, if I recall my mental-opossum, the association of a great white owl causes a swoop-entrance of the bird above said opossum, and it to scampers. hurriedly hopping along into a mist.

I’m imagining this all while sitting in Borders, trying to concentrate on the Year Million essay on laughter and numbers. What, exactly, is the Reimann hypothesis?

Could I travel now via consciousness, to Paris? Could I bring along my mental opossum and laugh myself into 1,3,7?

This is my cosmic consciousness. A residue-mess of imaginary being, voices, past pain and pleasantries.

“Things that are over do not end. They come inside us, and seek sanctuary in subjectivity. And there they live on, in the consciousness of individuals and communities.” –Leon Wieseltier.

Traveling doesn’t always mean forward in time, but back in time, back into a swirl of moments. Tumbling off my horse that day, perhaps the string of numbers, the threads, were telling me that true reality of the world is never linear, but a spinning.

While standing on a knife-edged present, moment-to-moment, the past and future pitch spoons and forks at us, assailing us with a consciousness that spins, dizzying us to different worlds and selves, selves we thought we left behind.

Driving home from Borders, still jittery from caffeine, an image of me as a younger-me, riding my horse across the dirt that day, tumbling to the ground, landed itself on my chest.

Younger-me sits in the passenger seat, riding boots muddied.

Present-me doesn’t want to look at her and instead, stares in the backseat where future-me sits, dotted and hazy. Is she where she wants to be? Is she happy? I want to focus on her, not the muddy-boots child.

A darkness.

Nothing is ever “closed” to our consciousness. All things permeate even when we don’t realize. And as many voices as a crowd carries, bundled as a bouquet, inside of us, multitudes of selves fight for our attention.

1,3,7. My cosmic consciousness swells, sucks in its belly, swells again.

A darkness.

One moment, a joy not unlike tulips, pushes through.

The next moment, sadness heaves its heavy body toward the door. No one gets through my consciousness but, somehow, we try to translate the selves that seek us.

Just as traveling consciously to other places doesn’t have to be forward or backwards, our moods and selves can spin down, in no particular order, and bring with it mental-opossums and various other creatures.

Driving home from Borders, still jittery from caffeine, younger-me in the passenger seat and future-me in a haze in the back, I think about the various “states” and “selves” I’ve encountered while sitting in my seat, drinking lattes, listening to laughter and counting corners.

1,3,7.

1) at 5:19 PM–

I have two thousand ponies in my ears,
tiny ones; they try to keep
up with my heart, hooves
in rivers of blood and wax

3) at 6:04 PM–

Your kiss, starfish–
all mouth, unafraid–whole
oceans called out and I,
bits of sand, grain,
knew my name again.

7) at 8:45 PM–

How many claws can sadness have?
what can one do when, driving,
the bear breaks through, heavy-
weighted, a chest-pain, bright-sting,
laughing and innocent of the depression he brings?

From the ponies

to the starfish,

and then, the bear breaks through, my consciousness spinning back upon itself.

The Year Million Essay says laughter and numbers may be the only thing that remains.

And, caffeine splitting open anxiousness, I drive into a darkness home, my cosmos traversed by as many selves as seconds, as many voices as mental-opossums and other creatures.

Paris, he says.

And I am jealous, sitting here, counting corners, numbers, high on caffeine and Reimann’s hypothesis.

Tumbling, once, I fell off my horse– the world could have ended and I would have been laughing, happy to know the thread-of-things.

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Certain things fly past God and into my hands…(Dialogues with Imaginary Schizophrenic Man, Part 1)

What will hopefully be a two man script at some point. What I have so far.

Older man, 60’s, glasses. In a Dressing Gown. Has been standing on a porch for hours. Late morning. Stands still, occasionally placing his hand over his eyes to improvise a visor of sorts. Squints. Shifts weight from foot to foot. Other than that, no motion at all. The porch looks out into a neatly tended garden. There are white wicker lawn chairs speckled in the green Bermuda grass. If it wasn’t for the patches of hedges and color coordinated flowers within the hedges, the grass is pristine enough to have once been a golf course. The man, in slippers, mumbles about crown molding.

Quietly, to himself:
Yes. Yes. Quite right the painters were here to paint the molding. Seems this place is crumbling. Right before my eyes. Used to be best estate in Sussex county. Best of the best. Crumbling. Crumble cake. Wait for it. God knows.

After some time, and rather forcefully, he exclaims:
Oh, rats and biscuits! The farthest I can see into the garden is just past the hedges! That does nothing for my electrons! Nothing for God and heaven-delusions! Nothing for science and the tea-totaling hopeless badgers! Tell me! Where are the mice going? Scatter, scamper, sloppy creatures! What pill to take to know the Map-of-Imaginary-Mice!

A man, in a Dressing Gown, appears to the right of him:
You said Rats

What?

And besides, If I told you, you’d never believe me

Rats?

No, mice, obviously

Yes, mice!

But you said Rats.

I said rats and biscuits. Simply an expression!

I thought nothing was ever “simply an expression.” Either way. We’re dealing with Mice.

Yes, the Map-of-Imaginary-Mice.

You wouldn’t understand. I cannot tell you.

Tell me? Who are you?

That’s an easy assumption, isn’t it? Not so much an “expression” as you said. Nor simple.

I just need to see further into the garden, so as to know where the mice are headed.

No one ever asks about my day! And I cannot tell you.

About your day, or the mice?

My day has the mice in it, running about.

But what about the map?

I cannot tell you.

Who are you?

That I can’t tell either. Not to you.

But I must see past the hedges. Nothing can be done for science otherwise, or my electrons.

Is there something wrong with your electrons?

I think so. I’m looking at it. Well adjusted.

What has just adjusted well?

My own hands. And nothing else. Most unlikely, you. Tell me about the mice! Where are they going?

Past the hedges I suppose.

Rats!

No, mice.

No, Rats and your mother! I can’t take this. Understand, I am about to climb a tree or unground myself.

Unground, or bury?

Can you read minds? Do you have tarot cards and a scarf from Toledo?

My god, I do, in fact.

Because you know my gut-stone language!

And this is a language by all stones, or just the one in your gut?

You know, I never thought about it before. What does it matter, all stones or mine?

I do have a scarf from Toledo. Hanging on my wall. Rather interesting.

I don’t have time for this. Rather, I have to know the mice’s going aboutness before the others catch me!

What others? Am I an other?

You’re an exception. Though we have never been acquainted, you’ve somehow picked up on my stone language and other such rays. Funny, Toledo is rather miserable this time of year. I had a dog once, named after the river Tagus. One can see the Tagus for miles standing on the Alcazar. There was a woman there, a mathematician. I feel madly in love with her. Toledo, Toledo. I dreamed I was El Greco, and all the gypsies cried over my grave.

This mathematician, a woman you say?

Yes. Quite. And loved by God. Must we revisit such nonsense? Blast her to heaven and all other quadratic formulas! The mice! I need the map and to see past the hedges.

Perhaps a mathematician would come in handy about now. Tell me more about Toledo.

No! Must stick to task. I have God and the electrons in my pocket and one must be careful this time of day, sun’s nearly mad this hour. Mad. Mad. Everyone here is mad.

Am I mad then, sir?

Of course not! Anyone who knows the mice’s map has a grip on something past God and into infinity.
What keeps me standing here is the hope I’ll finally fix my electrons and know how to fix Science!
Tell me! I am positively on my knees, can’t you see?
Do you read my mind? Have you all the words to my gut stone language? All the rules and organizations?
I am not mad! I am the only one concerned for God and science, am I not?
People prancing about my garden, unawares! Unawares! Aware of only their shadows!
If we were in Toledo, the people would pay more mind to garden mice!
I tell you this truthfully, not for my own gain.
Rats and biscuits! It is true!
But Toledo is rather miserable this time of year. Miserable.

What ever happened to the mathematician, this woman who you fell for?

Fell. Fell into a trap! Like hanging oranges off the banister in hopes of catching seagulls or fish! I had a dog once named after the river Tagus. He loved oranges. No, she’s gone, undoing herself in her equations. I dreamed I was El Greco. The gypsies cried over my grave. If we were in Toledo, the people would pay more mind to garden mice. Excuse me; did I give you the password for my gut stone language? I had it written on a piece of paper. Stuck it in my pocket, see, so the others wouldn’t see it.

Am I an Other?

Certainly not! Certain things fly past God and into my hands. My hands are all that are Certain at the moment. This is why I need to see past the hedges, observe the mice. Yes, the mice must know how to fix science and my electrons. Rats.

No, mice.

Yes, mice. Obviously. Did I tell you? I dreamed I was El Greco. Theotocopoulos. Bird of God. Having died, the gypsies cried over my grave. Bird of God. Only then could I see past the hedges.

And perhaps you dreamed you were a bird, so to capture mice?

No. El Greco was Domenicos Theotocopoulos. The Greek. Bird of God. Cast from the Monestary for there were demons in his hands. The electrons were set wrong. Mathematically. In his head.

And the mathematician. She was a dream-vision, or real. A woman of Toledo, or someone you loved as El Greco?

Must we revisit this? Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. I do not see any reason for her revival. Her quadriadic equations. I simply need to see past the hedges and get on with it! Tell me about the mice and let us part.

Perhaps I do not want to part with you.

Alas! Did I give you the password for my gut stone language? You’re getting close to sounding like myself. This worries me. Faith is asking for visions. I’m asking for the map of imaginary mice. This must be done swiftly, before the Others find out!

Mathematically, this is impossible. And your electrons know this. El Greco would have known as well.

El Greco washed his hands before entering the orange groves. His feet, as well. Look, the garden is slick-full of mice and their map is hidden past the hedges. I know. I saw it once, in a dream. Things fly past God and straight into my hands, I tell you! This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, hear ye Him.

Christ!

Exactly! And I tell you, Toledo is miserable this time of year.

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Great Love: Finding the Other Between Brahms and Quantum Mechanics

“We shall be changed. For this perishable nature must put on the imperishable, and this mortal nature must put on immortality.” – 1Corinthians 15:52-3

There are moments when you know that a voice or language from a distant source– be that an author or memory of a past-self–comes, shattering glasses, with the purpose to lift and nudge you to hope-free joy, for to hope is not to live, but to predict, and the voices outlast all anxiety found in hope, that unstill ground. In these moments–glimpses of Great Love.

As I stood between myself and the window, I had a feeling an Other was perceiving what I soon would unwrap.

Call it opening up, call it madness, but sometimes, one feels waves when the ground is steady, feels love when all corners are dark.

These moments strike only when the mind is ready, when perhaps a broken-down-ness has occurred. And, the very moment we feel the whole world is stagnant, in the cracks of an alleyway, burst gardens! And why not? Sporadically, the Other dances in tune with our neurons. If not sporadically, we might not notice it when it does occur.

I said I stood between the window and myself while sitting down. At that second, I did not know that state of being-in-between, but looking back, as satellites look to stars, catching unseen tails in their lenses, I move toward a realization that I could, and did, stand between former despair and future unknowing, suspended.

What stands between is not really me, but the Other, singing in a tongue of unknowing.

Despair has the capacity to lull our bodies into the dance, too, but only occasionally, and with caution. For, after we begin to see ourselves as the Other, a clearing in a wood is put to flames, or, more physically, a neuronal pathway, used, shakes off.

One experience cancels the next, and to build, we remember ghosts, only ghosts.

Why can’t gardens grow out of every despair then? So what if our minds give up the clearing in the wood, brushed back with flames of the Other, destroyed, neurologically clipped?

Because, alongside the unknowing that comes with the dance, the moment when the voices come in, there must be undergrowth and new associations, though they are painful. Not to withstand the undergrowth and pain, but to understand, know.

Once, I succumbed to another sort of dance. Not the relief of the Other, but anchoring despair. Weighted, I thought to cry out, lift me up! But something wanted my attention. To know this undergrowth, to keep my life from being always “in the clouds,” a gift was being presented and I was to unwrap it. So I cried. Full and belly-shifting. But I want revelation, I thought, not this!

But why, asked the former-me, the voices, the Other. How is this any different from joy? Unwrap it, slowly, sing into the suffering. Be still in it.

From this stillness, something happens like what happened today near the window. The Other stands and allows me to be in-between former despair and future unknowing. And, in that moment, glimpses of Great Love.

It is the body where the weight of my crying rested. My body that understood something the mind was rejecting. So, when we are crying out, wanting relief, not accepting the gift, how can a duality happen? How can we have a feeling of beginning-to-know something we have yet to know?

A single electron can take two different paths within our circuits. It can, in essence, interfere with itself while trying to get from place to place, split between two places at once. And so, too, ions, which carry all our potential actions and thoughts across the brain—it is through ions that our neurons communicate.

So, as with Schrödinger’s wave equation that computes all the possibilities of one particle’s behavior, left alone, the particle has no specific location. Two places at once, five? In a wave or still? To observe is to un-know.

Just as I was walking down the stairs for a cup of tea, a person downstairs began playing Brahms. Though they had been playing for some time, I was only just aware. A thought scurried across just as I felt sadness. So this is the language of the moment. So this is two places at once. My listening and Brahms’ calling into the world, the darkness that once housed his despair. And, possibly, the person playing Brahms began in order to relieve their own sort of sadness and weight. Lifted, we are all together singing!

I remember a friend who called to me as I was running into the West Texas sunset. He was a sort of perceived knowing that the Other danced into me today. I had the feeling of beginning-to-know something. And sure enough, my despair back then led me to write about water, and in that water surfaced a stranger who saw his own face in it. Hannah! He cried, and so I was then named Hannah in his mind. And perhaps the particles in my brain split open to be that for him. Communion, between our sadness and joy, is possible, even with those we have never known.

And when I succumbed to the weighted, full crying, I sang into my arm and began to unwrap the gift. What makes me hold, I thought, to one branch any longer than another? And so each experience is its own unwrapping.

If electrons are subject to the counter-intuitiveness of quantum mechanics, perhaps so are our states-of-mind, our emotions. And how, in brief seconds, we may lift up, out of despair or unknowing, and glimpse Great Love.
See below Bernstein and Glenn Gould together perform Brahms. How can a joy-canary not be hidden in this? Even on the saddest days?

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