Beauty is something to be eaten: it is food. But if it comes by air, like song? What beauty, this end of year so like one of yours, Simone, a kind of inverse premonition of the cruelty that comes of pain. An old record left in a rain forest testifies to the material production of sound only. Its scratched grooves repeat like scars on a monk seal's underbelly. Re-assemble sound and let us eat it like a choir's meal. One member resigned because she won't sing for a fascist. The dancer's lineage includes a woman reputed to have been a Nazi. What does she do with her dance, except repeat it? Kanani liked only a few brush strokes of her painting, those that represented nothing except background to yellow flowers floating on “landscape without horizon line.” Fog fills the forest like lint. Lint, Michigan? my daughter asks.
--31 December 2016