Looking at the violinist, I m amazed at how often we must be awarded a miserable sorrow that leads us to a place which shows a world of such beauty, such delight. That s what someone said last week when trying to explain all this to me. I think it sounds about right. And sometimes, his songs make me forget what has driven me here and what I must erase. A passionate embrace between a sailor and his true love on a dock, a Tiffany glass window looking over the apse of a church shattered by bomb fragments, or a violinist playing in Central Park all alone, under a solid shade of leaves.
Photographs trace memory.
Unreal and still, unavailable for comment. Fast forward through some clouds. Next to me is an engraving. I know it all from memory. It s on the third plank of the bench almost directly parallel to the top of my left kneecap.