In Harlequinade’s ballet, the
clown’s dance
steps seem stumbles. They aren’t. While he moans blues,
Robert Johnson’s slide guitar longs to glance
out of tune. Soul. Hillary Hahn would choose
Bach—her petite frame dancing in place—to
keep herself and violin honest. How
strange to think each of them—Hahn and maestro,
Johnson, clown—like you and I play right now
our cell symphony: consonance of one
hundred trillion units vibrating our
vital harmony. Yet we’ve just begun.
When we speak to each other of power,
do we sense ancient rituals? Do we
honor our continuum’s chemistry?
Roger Armbrust
May 24, 2013
