Sunday, March 25, 2007

Spalding Gray

He was our mouthpiece - our unapologetic apologist for the smarmy pseudo-educated chip on our collective shoulder. He was proof, PROOF, that you could find hope among the hopeless banality and press on. Hope, outside of the nonsense from church and Hallmark stores. He was our patron saint.

Then he threw himself in the East River.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

New Hymn

I referenced my favorite song in my last post about Mom and me. I want to share all the lyrics now. James Taylor wrote the music to Reynolds Price's lyrics and it breaks my heart every single time.

Source of all we hope or dread
Sheepdog, Jackal, Rattler, Swan
We hunt your face and long to trust
That your hid mouth will say again,
“Let there be light”
A Clear New Day.

But when we thirst in this dry night,
We drink from hot wells
Poisoned with the blood of children.
And when we strain to hear a steady homing beam,
Our ears are balked by stifled moans.
And howls of desolation
From the throats of sisters, brothers,
Wild men.
Clawing at the gates for bread.

Even our own feeble hands
Aim to seize the Crown You wear
And work our private havoc through
The known and unknown lands of space
Absolute in flame beyond us
Seed and Source of dark and day
Maker whom we beg to be
Our Mother, Father, Comrade, Mate

Till our few atoms blow to dust
Or form again in wiser lives
Or find Your Face and hear our name
In Your calm Voice the end of night
If dark may end…
Wellspring gold of dark and day

Be Here…
Be Now.

It may be the only prayer I’ve ever believed.