Lady Bast, Goddess Of Cats, is so much more important. Some kind of saint, it is said, Richard J. Childs may or may not be Shakespeare reincarnated in an age in which "we fight for the very soul of the world", Stephen Fry quoted. Childs requires of all of the fine arts "arcane anticipation", a condition known when felt, a condition engendered by performances live & incarnate alone. Our magical plumes are the meaning of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. Our artifacts are simply the chips & the drips which fall as they might. All of this is resistance enough through every artificiality & challenge unless sex & racquet sports count. & Surely they do. Richard Childs was in 1995 briefly pronounced dead. After Neil Gaiman's The Books Of Magic, "Something else got brought back with him. There are differences of opinion on exactly what". All such differences aside, Richard J. Childs invented the authentic tennis triples to play, melodramatically, upon wondrous expanded 135 x 234 foot purple courts of Martian clay & Childs is for now sole harbinger of forthcoming miraculously augmented English-Spanish fission sponsored via the fantastically faked deaths of Sasper, sometimes known as Shakespeare, Pocahontas, & Cervantes, an Oxford comma trumping every other, divinely effected in Babajian yoga magic, the three of them eloping for subtropical shores during the most spectacular & evolutionary apricot harvest in world history. Coastally birthed in The Deep Deep Deep South in a Year Of The Boar, Hog, & Swine just as Led Zeppelin's Stairway To Heaven recorded & dropped, Childs is with us to illuminate the most extraordinarily multiplied Renaissance vision of it all. Welcome to you for it has been far, far, far too long.