Mantras are passwords that transform the mundane into the sacred.
Some stones are so heavy only silence helps you carry them!
When a man dies, his secrets bond like crystals, like frost on a window. His last breath obscures the glass.
Now we're like planets, holding to each other from a great distance. [. . . ] Now we're hundreds of miles apart, our short arms keep us lonely, no one hears what's in my head. [. . . ] It's March, even the birds don't know what to do with themselves.
I wanted a line in a poem to be the hollow ney of the dervish orchestra whose plaintive wail is a call to God. But all I achieved was awkward shrieking. Not even the pure shriek of a reed in the rain.
I see that I must give what I most need.
Trees for example, carry the memory of rainfal. In their rings we read ancient weather - storms, sunlight and temperatures, the growing seasons of centuries. A forest shares a history which each tree remembers even after it has been felled.
When you sit down and play your music for someone you respect, you get that feeling in your stomach of like: 'Oh my God. . . ' You know if it's not great because you start to feel sick.
Drawing and masturbation were the first sacred experiences I remember.
The secret is within your self.
Any astrophysicist does not feel small looking up at the universe; we feel large.