Tales of This Week:

It's ended with a beautiful blowing light summer deep night breeze, the kind where you see stars again, even in a small backyard in Washington, DC.  You are home from your last shift of the week, famous Wednesday night Jazz at Bistrot de la Rue de la Upstairs de la Wine Bar de la poor bastard who works for little money but has the Chance to Learn about wine.  In poverty, and good hard work to keep from your hands being idle, comes spirituality, and a gift.

Man, chart the ups and downs, the zigs, the zags, the whoa!, the hail mary, the my god I gotta go home and listen to a few Pogues songs and wear out the last of this beauty of the Universe that is the night, the time of artist, the time of communion, the time of dreams and poetry, the time you kiss your little cat, so glad that she is with us still in this wonderful flowing hair-raising river that is always a beach, always a storm, always a forest, on firm ground, even in fixed daily drudge time, always a river, a great estuary, and this perhaps is the main reality of our lives here as we feel them actually, wondering all the while, what to do with ourselves.

It's a pure job, I would imagine, as all jobs are meant to be pure.  It's just a matter of seeing what is, what it is, that is pure, that is pure which you commune with.  It's a matter of twisting the dial (once you get warmed-up) and tuning in to whatever can be tuned into.

In this way, art is seen as that which happens when we vibrate in tune with the Universe.  And art, therefore, can have many modes.  One reason why, of course, we praise musical variety, variety of cuisine, of literature.

But let me tell you, seriously, when you vibrate in sort of how to say simpatico with the great Universe, a lot of neat things happen.