Stillness.

With absolutely no direction or self-inspiration tonight, I relied on good friend Takemitsu for some musings.  Although not profoundly familiar with his work, the stuff that I do know is wonderful.  Really beautiful.

When I try to do it, though, I end up standing still.  When I'm playing it, it feels very meditative, but when I listen back, I'm usually pretty disgruntled that it is devoid of direction.  It's a little bit frustrating.  But these days are part of it.  The disappointing moments.  They happen often.  And it's when we dwell on them do they create melancholy.  Better to accept shortcomings in their brief occurances, and move on.

Here we go, Day 107: https://ia600800.us.archive.org/30/items/Improv112911/11_29_118_55Pm.mp3

Marbles.

Because I have a million things to write, but not a drop of time before I should rest, here is a poem that I love, by Karin Boye, a Swedish poet.

Yes, Of Course it Hurts
Yes, of course it hurts when buds are breaking.
Why else would the springtime falter?
Why would all our ardent longing
bind itself in frozen, bitter pallor?
After all, the bud was covered all the winter.
What new thing is it that bursts and wears?
Yes, of course it hurts when buds are breaking,
hurts for that which grows
                         and that which bars.
 
Yes, it is hard when drops are falling.
Trembling with fear, and heavy hanging,
cleaving to the twig, and swelling, sliding -
weight draws them down, though they go on clinging.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the depths attract and call,
yet sit fast and merely tremble -
hard to want to stay
                    and want to fall.
 
Then, when things are worst and nothing helps
the tree's buds break as in rejoicing,
then, when no fear holds back any longer,
down in glitter go the twig's drops plunging,
forget that they were frightened by the new,
forget their fear before the flight unfurled -
feel for a second their greatest safety,
rest in that trust
                   that creates the world.
 

 Here we go, Day 106: https://ia600803.us.archive.org/24/items/Improv112811/11_28_118_54Pm.mp3


























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Curry.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  Few of us will know the pleasures of authentic homemade coconut curry with Thanksgiving turkey leftovers in it. 



Not me, however.  I know this pleasure quite well.



Best with toast.  Really!



And to be honest, it's not really authentic if it has turkey, since such a thing does not really exist in Thailand.  But it is pretty authentic to chuck whatever in there.  So, there you go.  And this time it was just mom and me eating it, so she was able to make it as spicy as she wanted.  SO GOOD!  (Siblings can't take the heat.)



You know what's hard?  Coordinating an asymmetrical rhythmic pattern in one hand with something completely different in the other hand.  I can do it if I practice it, but on an improv?  Lordy.



Sometimes when I improvise, I get concerned that it's riding the line of cheesy.  I should actually write "cheezy," with a Z, because I wish to emphasize that it scares me that much, the possibility of the cheez.  I know Yanni is a super successful musician by commercial standards, but man, I do not want to sound like him.  Not ever.  And, you know, it seems awfully easy to slip into that idiom as soon as one begins to do lots of meandering patterns, broken chords and whatnot.  Fair warning.



Here we go, Day 104: https://ia600800.us.archive.org/21/items/Improv112611/11_26_119_06Pm.mp3

































  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Purpose.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  There's been a lot of talk lately about our purpose here.  A big question that none of us will ever know the answer to, at least not until we're long departed from this place.  I've said before that I wasn't afraid to die, but that I'm afraid to not live.  I fear fear itself, and so, in many ways, perhaps I overcompensate by pushing past my boundaries, self-set and otherwise.  I hate to think that fear would prevent me from learning, experiencing, and knowing.  I haven't yet discovered my purpose on this earth.  But I'll be damned if I haven't tried to fulfill it.  I feel like a child, defiant and headstrong.  The moment I'm told no, or you shouldn't, I'm filled with obstinacy, and I can physically feel it.  For better or worse, that's who I am.



I do have fears... most of them are healthy ones.  (Rabid dogs, and knife-wielding strangers.)  I wonder, will those disappear, too, after I've fulfilled my purpose?  And I'm sure the answer is yes.  For reasons undisclosed at the present.



Here we go, Day 103: https://ia600709.us.archive.org/34/items/Improv112511/11_25_115_04Pm.mp3

































  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Coming Home 2.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  After re-reading my post from yesterday, I have to apologize for some unclear writing.  I blame it all on Marc, who bought the last round, which was probably one too many for both Gavin and me (I told you I didn't want another!), but we all enjoyed it thoroughly, and it was a fine way to part ways with New York before Thanksgiving.  Marc, Gavin, and Nuno (who had left a bit earlier in the night) are definitely all a big part of my NYC family, and it was great to celebrate the holiday with them.  But a bad way to start a blog entry.  Teehee!



Anyway, I was not able to bring my tuning hammer with me to Minneapolis.  So, no, the piano is not in tune.



We are mortals.  We are, therefore, subject to life.  And, consequently, to death.



Here we go, Day 101: https://ia700805.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv112311/11_23_119_26Pm.mp3


























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
100

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  The one hundredth post.  Man.  I wish today's improv would've been more to my satisfaction in celebration of this momentous occasion.



Settling is not my strong suit.



For the record, I was sitting on the floor to do this.  It was the only way I could effectively play inside my tiny instrument.  And now... in the revision, (that you have no perspective of, because I can edit, and whatever, at my whim in past, present, future tense...) ...



Here we go, Day 100: https://ia700809.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv112211/11_22_119_27Pm.mp3



And, as an afterthought, hours later...



... if you had to give up a sense... what is the hierarchy?  Marc says sight is most important.  Gavin and I claim hearing and smell are reigning above.  What about you?  We all agree, though quite sensuous, taste is the last to go.



And now, thinking about it a bit, it's what gives us a three-dimensional perspective... no?


























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





  





  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Rat-a-tat.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  I want to know.  I want to be inside your thoughts when you are figuring out just how you are going to execute that improv, and I want to observe your process as it's occurring.  What is it happening in there?  I want to watch it like a movie.  That would be so cool.



A fun one, and an angsty one. 



Here we go, Day 97: https://ia600802.us.archive.org/32/items/Improv111911/11_19_117_04Pm.mp3

and Day 97, Part 2: https://ia600805.us.archive.org/9/items/Improv2111911/11_19_117_08Pm.mp3 

































  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Quartets.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  My latest love has been string quartets.  (And by latest, I mean within the last week or so, though I've loved them forever.  They just happen to be on the top of my listening list these past few days.)



In my heart of hearts, I know I was meant to play a stringed instrument.  I love my piano, and I wouldn't give it up.  But almost every day that I play, I wish I could vibrate, or crescendo on a single note.  Or stretch my pitch that one little micro-tone that would give just the right flavor of soul-burn.  And all of these other nuances that make stringed instruments so expressive.  I feel like I could phrase very well with a bow.



I play my friends' instruments almost every chance I get.  Because, of course, I'd rather play a Strad than the student violin I've got sitting in the closet.  Honestly, I sound REALLY GOOD on a Strad.  I know, because I've played one, as well as a Guarneri and a handful of other very fine instruments.  I can play a mean scale, WITH good intonation.  AND I can bang out some simple beginning violin tunes con mucho gusto.



In fact, I became a pianist because of a violinist.  I could write the whole story here, but I've written it already on one of my websites.  I'll leave it to you to find if you're curious.  ;-)



Some days I think,"If I played violin, I would be able to do XYZ just like so.  And it would be freaking awesome."  And right after I think that, I think, "Well, why the hell am I not doing that on piano??? Stupid."



Anyway, so the last couple of quartets that I've been enamored with are the Schubert 'Death and the Maiden' Quartet, which is so fricking amazing, I don't even know how to use words to talk about it.  And Ligeti's String Quartets.  Good Lord.  How?  HOW?  These pieces make me crazy with jealousy, pathos, heartbreak, heaven, hell, and raised blood pressure.



And the improv today?  Meh.  I'm sort of frustrated.



Here we go, Day 96: https://ia600705.us.archive.org/25/items/Improv111811/11_18_112_30Pm1.mp3

































  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Big C.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  When I first moved to this apartment, my beautiful, 7 foot Bechstein grand did not fit up the stairs.



Moving here in the first place was sort of a financial gamble.  My rent was going up by three times what I had been paying, and it was a leap of faith that I would be able to sustain my new digs.  At the time, it seemed a bit crazy to drop three grand on hoisting my baby through the window, with knowledge that if I had to move again soon, it would be another three k on the way out.  So I swapped it with a nearby student for his quaint little upright until further notice.



Today, I could not keep focus on what I was trying to practice.  Thoughts kept wandering to, "What is that freakin' twang on the F#?" and "Bloody hell, the slow repetition of this gosh darn piano is driving me CRAZY! GO FASTER!"  "WHERE are the sympathetic vibrations???"  "The gravity IS NOT WORKING."  I've tempered my internal dialogue here so that my parents can continue to believe that New York hasn't changed me, or my parlance.  In actuality, Mom, Dad, I've heard eight-year-olds drop the F bomb on several occasions, which continues to shock me, but it goes to show that one can't live for long in NYC without acquiring the mouth of a sailor.



ANYWAY, the point is, it has been two years since I moved into this cozy, little place.  And though I would lose most of my apartment to it, I think it might be time.  Time to bring back Carl.



Here we go, Day 95: https://ia600803.us.archive.org/24/items/Improv111711/11_17_119_33Pm.mp3 

































  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Breathe.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  After a friend's Carnegie recital this evening, Alvaro and I got to talking shop, and at one point I asked him, "So... what is it that you're looking for when you go to a concert?"  He said he was waiting to be surprised.  I think I know what he meant, but for me it might be a little bit different.  I love to be energized by concerts, and I love that shock of surprise as well, but what I really want is a moment that I've described before.



That moment where all the connections in life and death seem to converge together at once, and only for a brief instant, to produce a perfect, harmonious, all encompassing clarity/catharsis. 



And when I use the word harmonious, I don't mean it in a musical sense... I mean it in a way that perhaps touches nirvana.  But not simply nirvana.  (Simply?)  Because harmony would imply balance, and to be really, truly balanced, you'd need to catch sight of some of the terrible and painful and suffering, as well as the terribly beautiful and painfully pure and a feeling that you have been stripped of suffering through understanding.  (Though what I often feel is a strange mix of guilt and heartbreak from understanding.  Who wants to explain that?)  The juxtaposition of dissonance against harmony is what really makes us feel freed.



And when I say "a brief instant," I mean that in the truest sense.  It happens, and passes before you can even grab onto it, almost before you can recognize it.  And the moment it's registered that, yes, I'm having this feeling, it's already gone.  And it's sort of sad.  Sad that it couldn't linger a bit longer, because in that glimpse, everything was beyond bliss.  The deepest, most-cleansing breath that conveys the absence of any physical limitation.  And I won't know, as I never have, if I'll ever have that feeling again.  But that's what I'm waiting for.



And I can tell you the last time I had that moment.  April 10, 2011.  Carnegie Hall.  Met Orchestra, James Levine conducting one of his last concerts, Evgeny Kissin soloing for the Chopin Concerto No. 1.  I went with a student to see Kissin.  I insisted on staying for the Brahms Symphony.  I wanted the fourth (my favorite), but it was the second.  Not long into it, (and I wish I could hum to you the melody of this moment, because I remember exactly what I was hearing when it happened,) my eyes became wet with tears, totally unprovoked, and not in a sob... I almost would not have noticed my physical reaction if it weren't for the wetness.  My soul was instantly exonerated.  And I spent the rest of the concert perched over the ledge in front of me, hoping with all my might that it would never end.



I once asked here, if you had ever felt like you had been saved by a piece of art.  Needless to say, this was a one.



And now, on to what my Dad calls "squeak music," and yes, that's with a negative connotation.



Here we go, Day 94: https://ia600704.us.archive.org/33/items/Improv111611/11_16_117_06Pm.mp3


























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Rumination.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  I guess it's that time again.  This whole blog and improv project has been so truly life-changing in many ways beyond it's initial purpose.  But some days, I would rather like to watch a show or something instead of write meaningful prose here, which sometimes takes hours.



But I realize that my purpose is to give you a greater sense of understanding, and so, as it is my duty and honor, I shall abide by my self-afflicted role.  So that tomorrow, my followers, now from Peru, the Ukraine, Russia, and Brazil, not to leave out Canada, Australia, the US, the UK, the UAE, France, Turkey, and Germany, oh yes, and Spain and Portugal, will have something to think about throughout their day.  (And who are all of you, anyway?)  I still believe that there are really only three people following this blog.  At least on a regular basis.  Thanks, mom, dad, and McIntyre.  Nat, I'll count you in on this, too, since you do like the writing.  It does make me feel good that you care.  I will continue to write things that you like to read.  Smiley face.



Yesterday I had an eight-year-old student come for his lesson, and very enthusiastically proclaim, "I wrote a song!"  It was a simple little thing, but a nice melody... more or less a five-note scale up and down, going to a flat 7 before arriving again at the tonic.  My favorite part was the flat 7, of course.  His favorite part was that there were no intervals larger than a second.  He liked the smoothness of it.  He played it a lot of times, sometimes slow, sometimes fast.  And he said, "Isn't it more beautiful, though, when I play it slowly?"  That might not seem like anything, but when a child, usually hyperactive, says something like that, it's pretty special.  At least to me.  I love the care and concern that he had with his creation... and that he even thought about the tempo, and beyond that, that he assessed it in terms of beauty.  And when he played it with pedal, he said, "It doesn't sound good with pedal.  It has to be without pedal.  When it has pedal it sounds confusing."  For all of the grief that we endure as teachers, moments like these make me very happy that I do it.



The topic has been brought up here before, but also in the "real world" about why it matters, the feedback, the validation, whatnot.  Why do we care what other people think?  The other day, I wrote that perhaps it was because of the feeling of giving people something they love.  Yeah, that is true.  I know that feeling.  It's a good one.  But I think this is one of those multi-layered things.  I went back to my very first blog post to reacquaint myself with what I had written there, and sure enough, I still believe it.  I wrote about fear and vulnerability. 



And I think that we feel valued by what we create.  And if people don't like it, we think that they will like us less.  I hate to say this, but in some ways I think it's true.  People are drawn to talent.  In other ways, it's a load of BS.  Because surely, I have friends whom I love dearly that find themselves talently-challenged.  (Of course they have talents, some of them are more hidden than others.)  



Now the question is, why do we care if people like us?  I don't think being from Minnesota helps.  But this must be tied into the fear and vulnerability in big ways.  I guess it can hurt us when we put something of ourselves up for public scrutiny, for if it gets rejected, we feel like we are personally being rejected.  As artists, these things that we create are worldly expressions of our souls.  And the more real we are, the deeper the rejection can reach, and we feel the potential for abandonment.  I mean, I guess this is all really obvious stuff, but I'm just working through thoughts here... talking in circles trying to figure out an answer.  



Anyway, it's getting too late to write more.  My brain is all confuzzled, and there's something in my eye. 



Here we go, Day 93: https://ia700807.us.archive.org/22/items/Improv111511/11_15_119_04Pm.mp3


























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Slava.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  'Slava, do you really like this composition, or not so much like it?  Because if you tell me you like, then I dedicate to you this  composition.' I was in so deep shock.



"After that I so loved him,  I learned it by memory in four days. I then came with my pianist to  Shostakovich and said, 'I would like to play your concerto for you.' He  tells me, 'Slava, one second, I give you some music stands.' I tell him,  'Not needed, my friend.' It was the most fantastic moment in my life."



Here we go, Day 92: https://ia600703.us.archive.org/29/items/Improv111411/11_14_115_40Pm.mp3

































  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Opera.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  I was jogging along Riverside Park today.  The air was crisp and blustery, the sun shone brightly, Shosti 5 helped me run against the wind in a slightly panicked determination, and as I rounded my last corner to head up the steps to "civilization," a lode of sparkling mica caught my eye from a large rock that was nestled neatly amidst a patch of green grass near the foot of the path.



And it looked beautiful, but strange.  Like it had been placed there on purpose, which could be true, considering that most of NYC parks have been landscaped.  It made me think it was part of the set from Rheingold, or some other epic Wagnerian opera.



And then I thought, am I just a character in a very grand scale opera?  Is this all just a meticulously crafted masterpiece, a study of humankind, emotions, relationships, creation, timelines?



If so, I'm gonna make it good.  I am gonna be the character that makes the gods say, "Did you watch that episode of Human Life last night?  MAN!!  That was crazy!!  I wonder what's going to happen next?"



On a side note, melted chocolate should be considered a sport.  You heard me.



And for today, a children's song.



Here we go, Day 90 (THREE FREAKIN' MONTHS!!): https://ia600706.us.archive.org/24/items/Improv111211/11_12_117_06Pm.mp3


























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Animal farm.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  I was talking to Joy yesterday about all kinds of things, but mostly about her Thanksgiving trial run with the farm turkeys that she, Aaron, and Dan slaughtered a few weeks ago.  (I recall a quote from a family dinner this past August: "Shall we chop their heads off, or just slit their throats?"  Best out of context.)



I was momentarily horrified that Joy herself had served the kiss of death.  My gentle sister.  Ending the life of a living, breathing creature.  As my horror became more clear to her, she assured me that she had not done the actual killing.  Only the feather plucking.  Sigh of relief.



I am not a vegetarian.  I know where my meat comes from.  I don't have ethical problems with eating animals.  I just don't want to kill the animals myself.  There are people that will do that for me.  Dan, who did some of the executions, put it this way:  That moment, between life and death, is a very weird one.  And that's a weird moment that I don't want to know unless it's a matter of survival. 



When I was twelve, I went on a hunting trip with Dad.  Daddy/daughter weekend.  We drove up to Pappy's old duck camp near Bemidji, got up at five in the morning (believe it! I do early mornings when I have to), and got ready to take the boat out on the lake.  Jimmy's hound was excited to come with us to fetch anything that we might shoot.  But it was northern Minnesota in the winter.  And it was cold.  Dad tried to get the boat a bit off the dock, but the ice on the lake was too thick.  He was worried that once we got out in the water, the ice would freeze up again and we wouldn't be able to get back.  He knew I wanted to shoot the gun, so we satiated ourselves with aim at a couple of cattails, which I missed.  (Gimme a break, it was a twelve gauge.  I was little.)  And then we went to the neighbor's, who let me blow through a few rounds on his six-shooter.  Dad tells a famous story about the guy waving it around like nothing, and being afraid for my life.  I won't go into detail here with that.  I've already wasted enough cyber ink.  The point is, even though my full intention was to get up to that lake and shoot some ducks, I'm super glad in hindsight that circumstances prevented it.  I can't imagine what it would've done to me psychologically.  I just can't kill things.  



Joy says that my little niece Ana watched the entire slaughtering process.  It didn't seem to phase her one bit.  In fact, Joy said she had a morbid fascination with the turkey heads floating around in a bucket of blood.  She just stared and stared at them, bobbing up and down, nameless waddles in a sea of plasma.  Apparently Ana is okay with things getting whacked as long as they're "mean."  And she said the turkeys were mean.



Ana's sweet little kitty, Daisy, was not mean, though.  And disappeared not too long ago.  She asked Joy what happened to Daisy.  "I think probably an owl got her, honey."

"What did the owl do with her, mama?"

"Well, Ana, it probably ate her.  They're strong enough to get lambs, you know."

Joy described that as a moment where she doubted her mothering.  I can imagine it now.  The exact instant where the imagery of an owl, hooked beak and talons, ripping apart a sweet, soft, best friend of a cat registered in Ana's innocent, four-year-old mind, producing the silent face scrunch.  The one where at first you think, "Oh, okay.  She's just processing it," but soon, very soon, you realize the train is coming off the tracks, and going in the direction of uh oh!  Abort!  Abort!  And then, full blown, tearful wailing.  "DA-AAI-SSYYYY!!"  That was the wail.



But now, Ana just asks a lot if owls are going to get things.  And she talks about it like she talks about brushing her teeth.  No big whoop.  I guess growing up on a farm really helps a kid understand the cycle of life.  I told Joy that I bet the same thing happens when she tells Ana about sex.  Her face will scrunch up into a twisted little distressed mass, her round, raisin eyes will well up with salty, wet puddles, and she'll sob and wail in confusion.  "Why, mama, WHY??"  And then, a couple of days later, she'll ask Dan about it in earnest, and wonder what it was she said to make him blush.



Here we go, Day 89: https://ia700704.us.archive.org/18/items/Improv111111/11_11_119_07Pm.mp3



I stole these pictures from my sister's blog.








Before.










After.













Little Ana and Toby. :)





























  

              
  
    
  
    
  
  


  





 
  

  


  
    
  

    
Nomenclature.

    

      
      
    

  
    
    
  
  
  
    




  mistakes:



do we follow them or do we try to ignore them and continue with what we had going?  Sometimes committing to the mistake can lead into all kinds of awesomeness



.  Then again, sometimes it breaks the structure of what we had been developing since the beginning of the improv.  If you don't follow the mistake that has been made, it seems more obviously a mistake.  But then when i listen back, i think, there was that mistake?



Nothing is unintentional.



But...



Was it?



Or...



Here we go, Day 88: https://ia600800.us.archive.org/18/items/Improv111011/11_10_117_39Pm.mp3