Wanders in Solitude Tzhing

I sat at the piano, shirtless, bedecked in colored beads, crowned with a white horn glued to a backwards baseball helmet, chirping in The Language of Wonder and Delight.  How strange and distant it seems; how natural it felt back then!

What was I thinking?  I guess it was to transform the world through art, to make it beautiful for the children.  I was as delusional as Scriabin with his dreams of the Mysterium, though I lack his virtuosity and genius.  

But as the kids grew up just fine, the world "as is" became sufficient, and my crusading fervor relaxed into a show of modesty, independence and ironizing humor.  

And yet when I hear this music I seem to discern a pair of unsettling eyes peering out at me from a white mask, from the Before-Time of Innocence, calling everything into question again.