Sweet Potato Haircut

I am thinking about Bach tonight. I am swimming in sound, watching the night bloom to the tender tones of “Air on a G String” and wondering where such creative fruits came from, how Bach might’ve gotten his heart and hands on such beauty.

Often I contemplate the recycled nature of creating, how centuries of innovating atop the masterpieces before has allowed for much material with which to build, like thrifting through artistic history to craft something new, and revitalize something old. But Bach. So young in the history of human virtuosity, writing and seemingly dreaming of the prolific scores he awoke to find at his fingertips, and I think about the possibility of divinity, of prophets on Earth somehow aligned with the heavens to receive, and to, through spectacular talent, share with the world. And as I listen to Bach on this dark night, I imagine the voice of the universe as the murmuring cello speaking wordlessly to me, and I imagine that the silent parts of me understand.