Glass House Freedom

I was having trouble falling asleep last night . . . eleven, twelve, one, two. Had no choice but to reach for my last resort, reading. In these moments, desperate agnostics get spiritual. Along the lines of "God, if you're there, give me a sign." I opened up Tomas Tranströmer's Bright Scythe (translated by Patty Crane) to "Allegro."

I play Haydn after a black day
and feel a simple warmth in my hands.


I don't play Haydn, but it had been a black day. Couldn't turn off my brain as thoughts about the Educational Industrial Complex churned in my brain.

The tone says that freedom exists
and someone isn't paying the emperor's tax


The tone says freedom exists. Someone isn't paying the emperor's tax, the tax that I am paying in the currency of stress.

The music is a glass house on a slope
where stones are flying, stones are rolling.


I am a glass house too.

And the stones roll straight through
but every pane remains whole.


Every pane remains whole. In that moment I visualized the stones passing through my walls without shattering the panes of glass. The stones will fly. The stones will roll, but they cannot break me if I let them pass through.

I returned to bed and fell asleep with that image in my mind narrated with the refrain, freedom exists.