Corsair.

On a word of good advice from an adult student, I sat down with a nice pour of whiskey and just one tiny little ice chip to open it up, as I prepared for tonight's improv.  Corsair Triple Smoke.  Yes, it's smokey, but smells more so than it tastes.  It's at once sweet and savory (more sweet), is clean, yet has a lot of body.  I taste the peat and the wood for sure, but there's also a floral note.  I would say that it is violet (because it is,) but it seems contrived since I just wrote about those violet candies not too long ago.  But actually, it's not just violet... it's violet and honeysuckle.  Call me crazy.  Buttery, and leathery, and on the exhale, minerally.  With all its complexity, this one is still light on the palate.  Yum.

I liked watching the little ice chip melt into the amber.  I could see a little tail stream down to the bottom of the glass.  The water kept to itself, and appeared more viscous than the whiskey.  It looked like the beginnings of a tiny genie getting ready to seduce me with a few wishes.  First one came true already.

Well, I was going to write about the truth paradox tonight... instead I wrote about whiskey.  But I guess it's worth mentioning anyway.  Wendell has quoted on occasion (I really wish I could remember from where) that, "at the end of every truth is a paradox."  It didn't blow my mind or anything when he first said it, because I think I've definitely felt the gravity of that statement before.  But day by day, I feel its effect ever stronger, and as my brain gets tangled with paradoxes of a general sort, it gets at once tangled and untangled by life's great paradox eternally.  And as I sludge through everything that's important and unimportant, I understand more and simultaneously become more confused.  Every now and then, I wish I had not been burdened with certain knowledge, but then as time passes, I'm glad to have learned that bit more about _______.

So, one of my favorite things to do is to get a flight of whiskeys (or just a bunch of friends that each get a different pour), try them all side by side, and describe them.  I have an excellent palate, if I do say so myself, and the more I have in a go, the better I get at picking out the flavors.  Try me some time.  I'm really good.  This makes me want to go to Fette Sau, get some $3 pulled pork sandwiches, and banter the night away.

Here we go, Day 87: https://ia800502.us.archive.org/14/items/Improv11911/11_9_119_23Pm.mp3

Perception.

When I sat down to begin the very first of these many blog entries, I said to myself, "There shall be no rules."  And I tried to forget everything that I presupposed.  But I also tried to make something that was going to go someplace.  Maybe that was my first mistake.

My mom said to me about two weeks into the project that she didn't understand the music.  That she didn't get it, but at the same time it didn't sound like just anyone.  It wasn't the mayhem of a child touching the instrument for the first time.  All the improvs sounded similar, even though they were all completely different.  My mom is not a trained musician, though she did sit through almost every piano lesson I've ever had until I was 18.  Her feedback was pretty much spot on, if you ask me.

I don't know why it matters, the feedback.  And really, truly, honestly, I value the criticisms as much as the praises.  If there really are no rules, why do I care what other people think?  Maybe I don't trust my own instincts?

I was chatting with Steve the other evening, and he was saying that when he believed he had created something that was really, really good, he didn't ask anyone else what they thought.  But if he needed to ask, it was because he subconsciously knew there was something wrong with the work.  Hmmm.  Food for thought.  I don't think I'm as self-assured about my own creations to be able to use that gauge.

Isn't it difficult, though, to be so honest with oneself?  Or step outside of our own perspective?  I find that judgement is so changed by time.  I asked a question a handful of posts ago referring to these recordings sounding so different from one day to the next.  The data didn't change... so is it me?  And if I hear it differently tomorrow, how differently will I hear it in a year?  From experience, I know that the answer is: very differently.  


That puts us artists in a difficult position to self-assess.  Maybe that is why the feedback matters.  I want to create something that people value.  I don't know why it's not enough for me to value it.  But I, just now, got interrupted by my logo designer.  She gave us at least the twelfth draft, completely different from the others, of a brand new logo, that Akiko and I adore.  And as I wrote her to tell her how happy we are, she said, "There's nothing like giving people something that they love."  Ah, now I gets it.

And so...

Here we go, Day 85: https://ia600702.us.archive.org/15/items/Improv11711/11_7_119_43Pm.mp3

Firsts.

Does it hurt more to change or stay the same?  I've definitely been through some trying times of change.  But it always seems that the changes, necessary or not, were for the better.  I've never looked back on an experience and wished that I had not gone through it.  (Admittedly, I have wished situations away in their present moments.)  And though many times it hurt more than I thought I could endure, I've come away with such a deeper understanding of myself and people.  And for the most part, the residual baggage that we all take from these kinds of experiences, I think has been rather minimal.

But there's the security of things staying the same.  It's comfortable and easy.  There aren't many surprises.  And as much as I want that and like that, am I the only one that feels trapped by that?  Thank God I fell into a profession that is different every day.

I don't think I am afraid of dying, but I am certainly afraid to not live.  And I know that this fear is why I almost never say no to the opportunities of things that I have not experienced yet.  It's why I feel restless and itchy to travel to a new place.  It's why I go out to meet friends for an impromptu evening, even at midnight.  It's why, even though I'm shy and cautious, I rarely make an excuse against random acts of spontaneity. 

There's nothing like the first experience.  Did you ever read a book or watch a movie that you loved so much that you wish you could read or see it again for the first time?  (I know you have, because everyone has.)  Or meet someone?  Or hear something?  This is why firsts are special.  Because they are exciting, new, foreign, uncertain, mysterious.  They are adventures in their moment, even if just the taste of something we've never tried.  And why we choose certain people to share firsts with, for me, is sort of a big deal.  That is the person that we want to partake in the thrill, the euphoria, and the exhilaration with.  That is the person who holds your hand (as surely as you hold theirs) as you sneak through the dark into unknown peril, possible marvel, guaranteed adrenaline.

To experience something for the first time means becoming privy to another of life's secrets.  And really, who doesn't want to be in on it?

Here we go, Day 84: https://ia700708.us.archive.org/20/items/Improv11611/11_6_118_14Pm.mp3
and yup, another one, Day 84, Part 2: https://ia700705.us.archive.org/28/items/Improv211611/11_6_118_22Pm.mp3

Texture.

One late night, many years ago, I was driving home on a familiar stretch of highway.  I don't remember where I was coming from... probably an obsessive practice session at school, surely something music related, as that is all I did in Minneapolis.  As I drove, I heard the most lovely piece of music on the radio.  It was reminiscent of the second movement of Beethoven 7, which I was not that familiar with at the time.  But it wasn't quite that.  I couldn't put my finger on it.  I reached over to turn up the volume, only to discover that the radio was not actually on. 

It was kind of freaky.

Touch.  Taste.  Why do we describe certain sounds as texture?  I mean, I do, too.  It's not that I disagree.  How is it, though, that our auditory sense feels certain sounds as certain textures, which is inherently tactile, is it not?  But it's visual, too.  I even describe certain smells as texture.  So somehow we all possess a degree of synesthesia.  Which is supposedly reserved for people with "special gifts," and is even considered a syndrome or condition.  But if I say to a student, "What color is this?" in a section of music, they will usually answer with a color.  Why do they recognize this as a valid question without even a blink?

And maybe this is the beginning of understanding the relationship between music and emotions.  Or any of our senses, for that matter.  Our senses make us feel physically, yet in a deeper way, emotionally.  I think in some ways our physical memory is capable of triggering even stronger emotional reactions than our psychological memory.  And I will admit to you, this is, perhaps, the first time I've even considered this concept, though it seems rather obvious.  But what does this say about us?  And does this make us more animal or more human, the supposition that we're even more affected by our physical selves than I thought?

When you walk into a room, and you smell that smell, does it not bring you back to your very own, exacting moment, that maybe didn't seem all that significant at the time, but you could describe in every perfect detail right now?

Here we go, Day 81: https://ia700703.us.archive.org/23/items/Improv11311/11_3_119_21Pm.mp3
and Day 81, Part 2, for kicks: https://ia600703.us.archive.org/24/items/Improv211311/11_3_119_28Pm.mp3

I think I had one too many glasses of wine.  Oops.




Sketch.

Ah.

Some times when I sit down to write these, I know exactly where I'm going.  I know what I want to write about, I have a clear idea in mind, at the very least, I have something to start with.

Today, not so much.

But that's the same way it is with the improvs.  And somehow, I manage to bang out at least one a day. Some are more inspired than others.

On that note, I did manage to book a flight home for Thanksgiving tonight.  Mom graciously got my ticket with frequent flyer miles.  It took about 45 minutes over the phone to find good flying times, switch days to see if it would make a difference, realizing it would not, lots of "What???"s, having to tell mom to talk normally because her shouting was causing distortion over the phone after she discovered that the mileage cost of my ticket went up by 10,000 in the last four hours, figuring out if it would therefore be better to pay for the ticket instead of using miles, not being able to justify the cost for days and times I did not like, questions about my birthday and whether I use my initial or complete middle name, wondering what a redress number was, assuring mom I didn't need one because I'm not a terrorist and do not share my name with one, etc, etc.  By the end of it, I'd managed to clean a lot of old receipts and business cards from my wallet, so that's a plus.  And also, I did get a ticket home at no cost.  Also a plus.  I feel okay writing all this about my phone conversation with mom, because I'm pretty sure she also thinks it's absurdly funny.

Improv: I like the stuff toward the end.  Near the beginning, there's definitely some accidental video game music.  Tetris or something Russian.

Here we go, Day 80: https://ia600704.us.archive.org/1/items/Improv11211/11_2_119_45Pm.mp3

Vaudeville.

Last night I found myself in a conundrum of freaks and weirdos in the NYC West Village.  After twenty minutes of figuring out how to cross 6th Ave (even the police couldn't tell me where to go), I ended up at Le Poisson Rouge for a killer Halloween party.  I'm usually not a club type, but the owners are Marc's best friends, and the nights that we go are not your routine meat markets.

I thought I was just going dancing.

No.

There was a freak show.

And cabaret.

And burlesque.

It was enough sword-swallowing, black lace, fishnets, Liza Minnelli-style singing, false eyelashes, garter belts, contortion, guys in kimonos, and chair-dances to last until next Halloween. 

I wouldn't mind, though, if I happened upon it again sooner rather than later.

I've always been gleefully curious about cabaret and burlesque... carnies and what-have-you.  What is it about that dark comedy that thrills us so?  Doesn't it always seem like they have a secret?

Here we go, Day 79: https://ia600706.us.archive.org/16/items/Improv11111/11_1_118_32Pm.mp3

Starry night.

I'm thinking about posting a programmatic improv today.  But not telling you all what it's about.  I'm curious to know... does it work?  Would you have preferred some absolute music instead?

The story is not mine.  It belongs to my friend, Mike.  I first heard it performed in May of this past year, with cello, clarinet, and Chinese mouth organ.  I had never heard nor seen a Chinese mouth organ before this night.  Pretty beautiful sounding, if you ask me. 

Anyway, this improv put me right to sleep as I listened to it, laying on my back in the middle of the living room.  I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but I guess it's a thing.

Here we go, Day 77: https://ia600704.us.archive.org/11/items/Improv103011/10_30_118_19Pm.mp3

Ark.

Got up extra early today for a former student's bar mitzvah.  I'll admit, the service was a lot longer and (excuse me, but it's the truth) more painful than I was expecting (one hour in, one and a half hours to go, Rupert: "I'm bored..."), but Harry did great, and it didn't hurt that we were served Morimoto sushi at the cocktail hour.  And beautifully rare filet mignon for the main course.  Harry's dad is a celebrity chef.  Michelin stars and whatnot.  So of course the food was extravagant and utterly amazing.

I sat down this evening, after a day of soggy snow and unabashed gluttony, and found myself unable to play anything that I liked.  But now, it's a few hours later, and I hear a lot of things that I like after all.  Though they may be just snippets from different improvs....  Perhaps it was the wine that loosened things up.  Now, that being said, this one is definitely stream of consciousness, and not altogether very linear, but still... something I like in it.

Here we go, Day 76: https://ia700706.us.archive.org/11/items/Improv102911/10_29_118_04Pm.mp3

Cotes du Rhone.

Stuff:

I'd rather give you a weird, little waltz than a bad pop song.  (I actually like weird little waltzes.  A lot, in fact.)

There is a mosquito in my room, even though tomorrow it's supposed to snow.  Which explains a couple of things.  But I'd like to leave you to wonder what those might be.

Contrary to popular (my) opinion, I actually did have some food in the fridge, and was able to throw together quite the delicious dinner.  (Mushrooms, shrimp, arugula in a garlic cream sauce over fresh fettucini, garnished with cilantro and parmesan.)

Wine and ice cream are, in fact, a good pair.

Best, most accurate phrase ever: Tenho saudades tuas.  Such meaning with such few words.  Why can't we have phrases like that in English?  Geez.  Force an American to branch out, already.

Decided on a usual langourous variety for today.  For some reason, I'm feeling this one deeper than the weird, little waltz.  I know mom doesn't get these, but... erm... well... oh well. 

Here we go, Day 75: https://ia600706.us.archive.org/1/items/Improv102811/10_28_1110_00Pm.mp3


Duende.

Another of my favorite words that cannot be translated, and possibly not even definable.  At times I've tried, but I get so emotionally caught up in trying to explain in completeness its full meaning... ach, it's better left to experience.  I usually end up holding my right hand pressed against my own chest with my eyebrows in full furrow, the left hand held out tensely in an all at once apology/get it?/feel it?/pain gesture.

Silly, right? 

Here we go, Day 74: https://ia600706.us.archive.org/19/items/Improv102711/10_27_117_28Pm.mp3

Every song                                          Cada canción
is the remains                                      es un remanso
of love.                                                 del amor.

Every light                                           Cada lucero,
the remains                                          un remanso
of time.                                                 del tiempo.
A knot                                                  Un nudo
of time.                                                 del tiempo.

And every sigh                                     Y cada suspiro
the remains                                          un remanso
of a cry.                                                del grito. 

-Federico Garcia Lorca

Obscura.

I've always loved black and white versions over color ones.  Color is great, too, of course.  But somehow there is more depth with a black and white photograph.  The geometry, balance, shadows, light, texture all come out better.  And if you have a living subject, then multiply all that times a hundred.  Everyone looks better in black and white.

I used to paint a lot.  My tendency was usually to paint tonally.  Just one or two colors, and spectrum.  I guess some aesthetics just stick with you.

There is something very clear about ambiguity.  I know that sounds a little bit paradoxical.  As much as I enjoy proofing through to an iron-clad conclusion, I love ambiguity.  Perhaps that is due to my curious nature.  I like to wonder... to seek further, to imagine alternate scenarios, to believe that there is more than what is immediately apparent.  In some cases, I feel like meaning can't and shouldn't be conveyed directly, and if one tries, the ultimate meaning, the gravity of it, is spoiled.  With ambiguity, we're left to understand the unspoken.  There are questions.  And somehow we understand that better.

And there's, I think, a prismatic hyper-awareness that I'm always after.  And this idea of ambiguity being of some sort of alter clarity: it seems to goes against the search for hyper-awareness.  But at the same time, there's something beautiful about pondering the internal obscure.  And isn't that, then, part of the experience, and hence the awareness?

Here we go, Day 73: https://ia600704.us.archive.org/9/items/Improv102611/10_26_113_14Pm.mp3

Siamese twins.

I'm having a hard time selecting today's improv.  I think part of that is because some of them start or end the way I like, but the stuff in the middle went where I felt like I had no control anymore.  Maybe that's just that I didn't plan it out.

And what makes for better output?  Is it more honest if I go fully impromptu?  In some ways, I want to say yes.  But there's nothing dishonest about formal composition... I don't think.  I guess the most sincere thing is an instant outpouring of the heart, but I feel like I don't have the right tools yet to make the outpouring understandable.

And one of the most dear things is to express what is in my heart or head, however it comes, and it is understood.  And it's funny, because when I say "understood," I don't even mean understood intellectually.  I mean, understood with the spirit.  Or understood with the soul.  Just understood.  And let me make it even funnier.  Sometimes I might not even understand what is in my own heart, but some expression happens, and someone else can understand it.  Music, or the medium, whatever it is for you, is a translator that way.

Or a sieve.  Put that big, muddy bundle of chaos that we usually all have at all moments (don't lie...  you have a Big Bundle of Chaos TM right now,) into your music sieve, and watch what stays on top.  I guarantee, if not clarity, at least a small nugget of understanding.  Or an inkling of exposure.  Which I guess for some people is scary.

Okay, and then there's this, too.  So, why is it that when I listen to these recordings, they sound different from one day to the next?  Hmm?  It's the exact same thing.  It didn't change.  So it must've been me?  What a difference one sleep makes.

And that's why I take disco naps whenever possible.

Here we go, Day 72: https://ia600502.us.archive.org/19/items/Improv102511/10_25_119_41Pm.mp3


I know I touched on some of this the other day, but I think it's worth revisiting.  I have a feeling that the whole "understanding" and layers stuff is going to come up a lot.  Brace yourself.

Balance.

Imagine the tip of a pen.  Set it to paper, and start marking a line.  The moment the pen begins to move, a shower of dust, ink, stars, splatters, exhaust, if you will, appears behind it in all directions.  And in front of it, pure, open emptiness.

"It is cruel, you know, that music should be so beautiful. It has the beauty of loneliness and of pain: of strength and freedom. The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love. The cruel beauty of nature, and everlasting beauty of monotony." -Benjamin Britten

Here we go, Day 70: https://ia600705.us.archive.org/3/items/Improv102311/10_23_113_31Pm.mp3
and because I just can't discern today, something totally different: Day 70, Part 2: https://ia600706.us.archive.org/25/items/Improv2102311/10_23_113_47Pm.mp3

Honey loquat syrup is my friend.

My improv today is extra meandering, due to my status of infirm.  I definitely checked that box today when I sat down to record.  I really would rather have been laying in bed, knitting, sipping tea, and watching tv shows on the internet.  Aside from the lovely smell of decaying leaves, fall also brings with it the first cold of the season.

I'm not really one to complain.  It's just an excuse for an improv that I'm not overly happy with.  I did, after all, get to see three wonderfully performed Beethoven quartets this evening, including one of my favorites, the c# minor, Opus. 131.  Astounding.  It's kind of a wow moment when you see this live, and done really, really well.  Akiko and I were extra excited, because Sibbi, the second violinist of the Pacifica Quartet, whom we saw tonight, is going to be our guest artist this summer at Lyra.  Pretty awesome.

Anyway, enough hemming and hawing...

Here we go, Day 69: https://ia600702.us.archive.org/15/items/Improv102211/10_22_114_21Pm.mp3

Saudade.

I entirely fear, expect, and want people to change.  It means we're growing, developing, evolving, learning.  But does it also mean that we can never get back to the places from whence we came?

Is it possible for some things to change, and other things to stay the same?  Think about those layers.  Those exponential layers. 

Physically speaking, when you revisit a place that you had once been, aren't there usually a lot of differences?  A shop has closed, or a tree has been planted.  It might be the same spot, but it's not the same.

Every moment, even this one, will never happen again.  You can't come back here.  You've just changed.  And we can look back at what's happened, but we can never re-do any of it.  Man.  That just blows my mind.

Anybody who says they don't have any regrets is lying.  But I don't regret my regrets.

And what brings this all to mind?  I have no idea.  Just thinking about time, how linear it is (but it's not really... just ask me how I know), people and how they change drastically or not at all, what is different today that I hadn't experienced yesterday...

... if you see a slack-jawed brunette sitting on a park bench looking extraordinarily dazed, that'll be me.  Feel free to put your spare change in my cup.

Here we go, Day 68: https://ia600702.us.archive.org/3/items/Improv102111/10_21_119_33Pm.mp3

p.s. Do you ever do stuff for your future self, because you think your future self will really appreciate it?  I totally do.  And then when future self is present self, I think, "Thanks, past self.  That's really awesome."