Thanksgiving Is Ruined
August 31, 2014
moi, global village idiot
Like the village idiot [l'innocent du village], I see the vision, I hear the mode
And the instrument, but the words like a herd of stumbling buffaloes [un troupeau de buffles confus]
Bump against my teeth and my voice opens on the void.
The last chord hushed, and I must begin again at zero,
Learn once again this language so strange and ambiguous [si étrangère et double] . . .
from Léopold Sédar Senghor's "Elegy for Martin Luther King (for jazz orchestra)"
methinks TiR often feels this way, this summer / year, esp. whenever after reading the daily newspapers