Words to my audience — to understand the following you must picture
the lazy float of the Frisbee thrown in the late summer afternoon heat… ;
understand the clay pigeon flies still born until the gun of the marksman speaks;
behold this childhood reverie — the early spring dance of bubbles in a tiny stream,
momentary cul-de-sac of melting snow that forms a whirlpool filled
with crystals of air, frost, black and blue, all and nothing, the abyss … .

And so … a record; now antique term reborn again, so it is with the record, it will play
back, itself the act and the act nouned with no apology— first, cylinder — then flat
at varying speeds, in various strata. By itself, the knowledge of memory, continuation of
all world history, politics, geography, law, religion, culture, philosophy, and recipes—
not to mention the music that danced the Frisbee between long haired hippies and the waiting future—

… floats lazily on a summer afternoon, stylus head bobbing, dipping in its own time, and before
the record runs out — we bounce and step upon a stream of sound that whirls us into
a spiral that builds us an ocean and we the shore the waves of time beat upon …

…the time of hippies – of rockers and surfers, folkies and classical freaks, hope headed jazz-ists;
the time of remembering when you got the first Beatles, Rolling Stones, Dead, Dylan, Joni, Laura,
and everyone knew it was all about Huxley and the Doors of Perception and magical mysteries
that revolved around a little chrome post in the middle of a plate that turned the disk that
held the next phase of the world on its back as if the mythical turtle that bore all creation
had been reborn and the Gods Made Love upon a standing wave of guitar generated feedback….

I see the toss of lazy summer afternoon, as radio plays and a Frisbee hangs in the air, spins
amidst dance of long puff haired head band mustachioed cut off jean tank top groovers
and it is all that it should be — moment defined as it is sails from hand to hand, heat shimmers
upon the land, everywhere is green, whether leaf or tambourine, and we are creating space
not between us, but new space, new places, there is nothing this record cannot dream.

Does serendipity create, no, guarantee excellence? of course it does
Does the stage get any bigger now it is so crowded? of course it does
Can the creative still be affirmed when it loses physicality? of course it does
Can the loss of love join, fall apart and join again or afflict a community,
or build one? of course it does

… the day —Frisbee revolves in that instant, I go round and round remember
the sound — the people the play the moment when anything was possible and time
turned in our hands and it was called a record.

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