I remember going to synagogue with my Orthodox cousins. The prayers were melodies but none to which you could attend. All the voices at the same time but not particularly together. Each timbre, each figuration unique.

The same praying, davening, micropolyphony-ing.

A solemn, beautiful cacophony.

In my synagogue, I never learned the language I supposedly owned.

Hebrew, Ivrit. I can articulate without knowing meaning.

But, there is meaning in the sounds themselves. Well, what one can call meaning.

Then there's Yiddish. I only received fragments of fragments,

Filtered through generations of wanting to be, to sound American.

Assimilated outsiders but still wanderers,

Language wanderers,

Sound wanderers.

My work - call it work - is a garden of gibberish,

Cultivated meshigas.

Excursions into meaninglessness.

This is my music, if you can call it that.

But, to distill a body of work - call it body, call it work - feels silly.

But silly is key

But necessary

But...