27 happened to me this past weekend. I had grown so accustomed to 26. As it was the title of my musical project for the year I rarely had that moment so common to people after the age of 5 1/2, when the number of years that one has lived on this earth escapes the mind for a moment too long. For this small reason, if not more, I felt privileged. 26 was also the arbitrary age which, for about the past 14 years, I’ve had an eerie premonition that I would not see past. So for the privilege of 27, I am truly grateful.
26 was quite a year. A year as majestic and loving, as lined with tiny aluminum sparkles yet as sorrowful as any year could hope to be. I sang what I saw, as the bird said. Each new month brought a fresh canvas, ready to be soiled with my rough recordings and childlike artwork. But how to capture and re-project the reflections of a month, within that month, still remains at least a minor mystery to me.