The Truth Is The Light And The

Man's Hope Can Paint A Purple Picture, Can Transform A Soaring Vulture Into A Noble Eagle Or Moaning Dove.

I Suddenly Recall The Arpeggios Of Laughter Lilting Across The Tender, Springtime Grass-gay-welling, Far-floating, Fluent, Spontaneous, A Bell-like Feminine Fluting, Then Suppressed; As Though Snuffed Swiftly And Irrevocably Beneath The Quiet Solemnity Of The Vespered Air Now Vibrant With Somber Chapel Bells.

In Those Days It Was Either Live With Music Or Die With Noise, And We Chose Rather Desperately To Live.

Whence All This Passion Toward Conformity Anyway? – Diversity Is The Word. Let Man Keep His Many Parts And You'll Have No Tyrant States . Why, If They Follow This Conformity Business They'll End Up By Forcing Me, An Invisible Man, To Become White, Which Is Not A Color But The Lack Of One. Must I Strive Toward Colorlessness? But Seriously, And Without Snobbery, Think Of What The World Would Lose If That Should Happen. America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I Would Recognize Them And Let It So Remain.

Many Of The Rites Of Passage, Those Rituals Of Growing Up Found In Our Society, Are In The Form Of Such Comic, Practical Joking Affairs--which We Ignore In The Belief That They Possess No Deeper Significance. Yet It Is Precisely In Their Being Regarded As Unimportant That They Take On Importance. For In Them We Ritualize And Dramatize Attitudes Which Contradict And Often Embarrass The Sacred Values Which We Proclaim Through Our Solemn Ceremonies And Rituals Of Nationhood.