who was it who said, we are exactly where we are supposed to be?
uncharacteristically awake before nine on a sunday morning, the first music i heard from the radio was, i was certain, by ravel. after the last notes drifted, the soft-spoken announcer, in an almost comical whisper, announced that that was from one of the miniatures of paul bowles. he, of the sheltering sky fame.
when i was a snotty kid, i vowed never to get to a church again as soon as i extricated myself from my mother’s influence. i dreaded the thought of listening again to dull sunday school teachers telling facile stories from the bible i knew were hard and bloody.