Well no wonder I can write. Both of my parents are superb writers. I grew up with that. Now I take it for granted. As if it's my gift. That's rather selfish. But then again, so am I. Finding loving-kindness is the challenge, truly helping others is the pierce of the veil. It may be a dream; I'm still not sure how to help myself. Really. It is so complicated, so simple yet incomprehensible.
I like to set other's words too. I've finally formalized my setting of Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good night". I have to disagree with the philosophy; I hope that enlightenment entails going very gently. That the understanding and acceptance of such a change of state should hold no fear, nor rage, as he says. And to be a literary critic, he rather mutilates the flow to acheive his meter. But it expresses what he wanted to say, and it does so effectively enough. I don't know how long the tune was kicking around, maybe since High School, but now it's figured out. So that makes a third; of which I remember at any rate. I set Joyce and Shakespeare in college. Now Thomas... next victim! And hey, where's my impresario? Well, they are all kind of strange. But the music always serves the words, and I'm pretty happy with how they serve. I guess the day of the patron is truly over. So I'll continue my Charles Ives impression; create the most artistically valid work I know how while I do something utterly different for a living.