Firenze comme era

Returning from Firenze last evening I was astonished to see my home more beautiful than anything there. The yard was lush and redolent from the two weeks of rain. And most intriguingly I dreamt of Florence, its stone streets, while I'd not dreamt of it once while there. The Florence I dreamt was a secret garden though all was stone. A neuropsychologist has written "My Stroke of Luck"--I saw it mentioned while on the plane--that allowed her to enter her "right brain" and discover the world was too much with her. Shades of Dostoevski who said he'd give his whole life to live one day in his aura. All connects; mind is Mind. Giacommetti would save his cat over his Michaelangelo. And Fra Angelico would sooner use Tamara of the Vivoli than Madonna.
It is not the soles of our feet that need washing after our daily encounters. Can we, dare we, use our true resource to flood our world instead of being gorged by it? Smile! You're on cando camera.

Joy to the Ode

If self is to dance, commingle, and harmonize with the eternal then the peace that passeth understanding, having put to rest your fucked up Self, must get its groove on. Let La Gioconda laugh. Let Mel Brooks dance on Hitler's grave. Physician! Heal thyself! After all, it is your faith that shall heal you. Revel in it.

But that old mortification of the flesh and spirit; that old foul rag and bone shop of the human heart; that life sapping melancholy; that lancinating terror as Death and Conscience eye us. Ouch.
Would you harm your innocence? Have you stopped?

Can your life's work compare to your life's play? I sincerely hope so.