LOVERS

Today I get up with physics in my head. Later as I try to translate some black holes into pastel colors – I even name my new painting Ergoregion, after Penrose’s process and Kerr space time – I instantly remember Bach’s birthday. Oh my God! How could I forget, I yell at myself, almost drowning the sound of rounded mouths in Bach’s cantatas which I listen to everyday. What to do? I was already finished with the cultivation of energetic mushrooms populating my ergoregion, so I wasn’t in the mood for another painting. But as soon as I blew myself up visually with Glenn Gould on the piano, I decided that I can always squeeze in a small one. Not only was I very efficient – I finished in 10 minutes – but I also managed to read my emails while placing the final touch on the canvas. My own red lipstick from my own red lips got transposed onto it – nothing less would cut it for Bach. A friend of mine, the poet Robert Gibbons, was asking for permission to use a fragment from a review of mine of his work in connection with a new publication of his. He wants these words on the book's jacket:

“Throughout the volume Gibbons dreams of Bach, Bach’s ability to think and create paradoxes and entanglements and he shows that time is affiliated with making variations upon the body. If, as Gibbons contends “the present is the roof of time,” the past—Bach’s time—cannot be anything else other than a variation on illusions. Einstein allegedly said: “people like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”

I ended up asking myself whether I was having a cosmic Saturday. Insane people like myself, Glenn, and a host of other Bach enthusiasts would have no doubt about it. Enjoy the music, lovers. It doesn’t come any better. Not ever. Never. Ever.