Tonight I attended a John Cage concert at some chapel at Harvard University. What started out as this beautiful, meditative tone poem for piano and violin, with increasingly sustained periods of silence between each note… well I was totally into it at first. It felt like the perfect antidote.
But then those silences were disrupted with thoughts of Trump. I would try to return to the music, only to find that the fleeting thoughts were becoming less and less fleeting getting heavier and darker. Taking on more volume and mass. And then I’d return to the room, only to be pulled away by the thoughts, getting louder and thicker. And I’d return for a brief second before succumbing to fear and sadness. An then an even briefer return. Until there was a wall, a real wall, between the music and I, a wall built on terror and anger and bewilderment and dread. This is the wall that Trump has already built.
And soon I could barely sit there in the chapel. I found myself squirming, restless, with shortness of breath. Utterly squashed. Annihilated and squashed.
How had the concert become so suffocating? Why this claustrophobic absent presence? Where was John Cage when I needed him most?
I know that shortness of breath is one of the symptoms of sarcoidosis and I have felt so fortunate that I do not have those symptoms, although I do have sarcoidosis, and it’s spreading… but even with sarcoidosis spreading, it was very easy to not think about it when I was diagnosed with it a year and a half ago.
But this Trump dilemma feels exponentially more worrisome than an auto-immune disease of unknown origins.
Although the causes of sarcoidosis are unknown, some say it’s probably related to toxins in the environment, something you inhaled that was not meant to be inhaled. But you can say that about anything.
Certainly Trump is caused by toxins in the environment.
Actually now it appears that Trump is THE cause of toxins in the environment.
But what causes Trump?
Why is there evil in the world?
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About The Lost Pedestrian
In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me).
My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
The Lost Pedestrian 