In principio erat verbum.
It begins with a passage. Behind, the monastery of Iona burns and I am bound for Kells held in a creatorís hands. This monk that flees is one of many who have longed to author me. I am the work of anonymous voices, straining, listening for a saintís reassurance. Through me St. Colum Cille speaks, ìThere are some, although few indeed, on whom divine favour has bestowed the gift of contemplating, clearly and very distinctly, with scope of mind miraculously enlarged, in one and the same moment, as though under one ray of the sun, even the whole circle of the whole earth, with the ocean and sky about it.î
6/8/00 3PMAnother idle hour of a flight that feels like fleeing. Beyond, America everything seems radiant. Descent into Dublin begins with light: a bright and yielding consciousness. Within this folio, molting angels construct clouds that circle the earth in a white reflective ring. Below, an unfamiliar land writes itself through the abrasions of its geography. Ireland is a visual Braille of fields and rivulets. The paths disperse over a land and its mythology, writing runes, analyzing and encoding themselves. Soon, five minutes by taxi to the hotel and a comfortable bed that is not mine. This pilgrimage exhausts, this cover hesitates to open.