I'm doing Rolling Stones time. A bit obsessed. Trying to figure out whose smile 20-year-old Mick Jagger reminds me of. Trying to place 66-year-old Keith Richards' eyes. Imagining all the animals they have inhabited over their performance lifetimes - panthers, wild horses, eagles, foxes, parrots, peacocks, turtles, lizards. So many colors.

They are a pair, the two of them, a fascinating conundrum, real karmic love-mates working out some soul connections. Keith sold his soul to the devil, to god, a long ago. He's pure, whole, a master sound-seeker, has no cares in the world. He makes music and knows he is lucky. He smiles looking up as he plays, in ecstasy. Even offstage, he's a holy fool, a clown of god. Mick seems strained and tied to many cares, but onstage he can release all that fussing and flutterbudgetting - it turns into pure performance. A mess of a thousand thoughts, gestures, concerns, cares, weaving into one architecture.

But I get it: Mick had to hold it all together while Keith continually fell apart, over and over.

How our eyes deceive us - just spend some time upside down looking at your ceiling. It does not take long to convince yourself, from what you see, that you could easily exist with that as your floor, that you could just get up and start walking on it. I don't mean that our eyes are deceiving you in imagining this! They are deceiving you the rest of the time, thinking you can't.