Dragonflies

I have a tiny window here, very small. I imagine both of my arms could fit through it if I smashed the glass, but the glass is tough and sound proof. It's funny what your brain does when things are soundless, because there isn't really such a thing. Even lack of sound has a particular buzz. Light has a buzz and there is light here, and the buzz is driving around me, motoring me into a particular kind of madness.

This morning a dragonfly was pressing at my window like an Orthodox Jew at prayer and I swear I could hear it, tapping. Which of course, I couldn't. Which made wonder if sound really exists, and if it does, whether it's different for everyone, being a creation of each of our particular brains. And, you know, that old question, of whether a tree that falls in a forest makes a sound if there's no one there to hear it.  In any case, that dragonfly made me long for the sound  that's probably emanating from the new Center by now, the hum and desperate song of plea and appeal. We'll see how that all works out, putting Jews, Muslims, and Christians to worship all in the same building, separated only by floor and ceiling, one from the other. I wonder if they fought over who got the penthouse.

 I've been in here too long.

 If it were up to me, I'd have had them  play musical floors, each of the sects, so that they each were constantly fluctuating between a view from the top, the intermediary pressure of being sandwiched in the middle, and the grizzly heat of basement vespers ; Kabbalat Shabbat; Hayya 'alas-salaah; Hayya 'alal falah...