you don't have to speak, i feel.

I look up to summer—literally: all that's happening above my head. Find yourself floating in the Atlantic or in some city pool; observing clouds or blue cloudlessness; tracing cumulus outlines of Donald Duck, a seahorse, Rip Van Winkle, or that ol' standby Christ, and there's a summer-specific spaciousness to be felt.

So in this season, when the sky opens up, I'm partial to the sounds of equally spacious music—like the kind they make in Scandinavia (a region where, one can reasonably assume, skies heavily influence moods). Epic times call for epic atmosphere is what I'm thinking. Particularly: strings and echoes, sparse electronic beats, references to childhood, and a rush of wind....

FEEEEEEEL IT!



What takes place while looking at the light in a skyspace is akin to wordless thought. But this thought is not at all unthinking or without intelligence. It's just that it has a different return than words. —James Turrell