Questionable questions.

It's a travesty that I have two advanced music degrees from reputable schools, and aside from the occasional 8 measure long counterpoint assignment (my favorite!), and one short blurbish thing for a piano lit class, I've never had to compose a piece.  This seems counterintuitive.  No?

So now that I want to write some stuff, I am slow and clumsy.  And have very little patience for myself.  And a big part of my psyche says to spend that time practicing instead of composing.  After all, what's the use?  (That's the little voice.)

Well, what's the use of any of this?  (Is my response.)   

*Little voice shrugs shoulders.* 

Me: I feel compelled to do it?

LV: Why do you answer that as a question?

Me: I guess I'm not 100% sure.

LV: Well, get sure.

Me: Well, I'm sure that I want to be doing it, and I like it, and I'm sure that the effort and results of it all fulfill me.

LV: Is that enough?

Me: I have no idea.  So far, it's been enough.

LV: Is it going to be enough later?

Me: I think so...

LV: Well, congratulations.  You're actually happy.

Me: Huh.  *furrows brow with concern over all those questionable questions.*



And finding some simplicity, and that this can work that way, too.  Maybe better.

Here we go, Day 206: https://ia600303.us.archive.org/13/items/Improv3712/20120307202816.mp3

Daffodils.

That smell always takes me to the first airs of spring.  Front door open after months of cabin fever, the clean, cool air of Minnesota rebirth inhaled into the house for the first time since September.  Streams of sunshine, turning every piece of dust into glitter.

I am there again.  Practicing at the piano in that warm sun and cool air, when mom walks into the room with a bouquet of bright yellow blooms in a vase, and sets them atop the instrument.  I never would have stood for it today, but we fortunately never left a water mark.  She has a wide smile on her face.  This moment lifts her spirits, too.  And I enjoy the next few hours, making music, and breathing in the sweet perfume of the daffodils.

For the rest of my life, daffodils will give me this.

Here we go, Day 204: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/16/items/Improv3512/20120305195333.mp3

Flamenco.

Tonight was marvelous.

If ever there was an art form that I have no blood connection with, but feel deeply tied to, it's flamenco.  And I can't be the only one who feels that way.  Cindy's words to me were of exactly that sentiment before I said a thing.

I remember hearing the Islamic call to prayer for the first time in high school.  I was totally mesmerized by it, and found it to be one of the most beautiful things I'd ever heard.  And when I started listening to flamenco, it was a remembrance to that sound that really grabbed my attention.  Even last night, when Arun played a most touching raga to end an evening of celebration, I was hypnotized.  If you look into it, you'll see where all of these art forms connect historically.  And why, when you hear gypsy music from totally separate regions, whether it be Turkey or Bulgaria, Hungary or Israel, there are common flavors.  This is music born and spread with religion, war, persecution, and expulsion.  Maybe that is why its pathos is so strong.

Whether you understand the words or not, the pain and strife is tacit, and there is no escape from the heavy spiritual embrace imposed upon you.  You are there; you are involved.  Even when there is no singing, no instrument, there is rhythm.  And in that rhythm: anxiety, tension, heartache, uncertainty, danger, volatility.  All of those things.  But passion is the underpinning of the entire form.  And you can feel it bubbling and bulging from within that methodically fixed, strongly enforced, rhythmic vault; seething and ready to explode.  And you completely expect your surroundings to burst into flames at any moment.  The surprise is when they don't, and instead, you catch yourself feeling your heart break.  It's not really clear why.  But then... there it goes.

Here we go, Day 203: https://ia600803.us.archive.org/19/items/Improv3412/20120304180534.mp3

Subway.

Ughhhh!

It would be sooo counterproductive for me to write anything good right now.

I WANTED to write about this: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/01/arts/design/01underbelly.html?pagewanted=all

and show these photos here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/11/02/art-unseen-the-underbelly_n_777770.html

and write about how you should watch out... because any day now, I'm going to bust out some footage where I'm wandering around some abandoned subway station, full of awesome art.

... and instead, after such a beautiful day full of rambling existence, and dreaming about how magical the subway could be, I'm just pissed at the MTA.  Manohman.

In.  Comp.  Et.  Ent.

Disgruntled is probably the mildest term that comes to mind at the moment.

Here we go, Day 202: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv3312/20120303210826.mp3

Prokofiev: Peter and the Wolf.  Shosti 5/8.











200.

The other night, sitting on a couch at the Tea Lounge, listening to some live music, a thin, little book showed itself to me.  Plain black cover.  I picked it up, and perused.

Poetry.

At the end of the night, the servers came and cleared the table; everything but the book.  I didn't think it was very normal for the Tea Lounge to leave out literature like that for customers to enjoy, so I took it!  Thinking back, maybe I should've left it with the employees, but my senses told me that it would only be left in some cardboard box alongside a winter hat and a few broken umbrellas for years and years to come.  It disturbs me when books are left unread and unloved.  At least with me, it would be cared for.

One poem stuck out to me.  It's been sitting on my music stand now since I pulled it out of my bag yesterday.

hiatus  
by Dennis Lee

And the unredeemable names
devolve in their
liminal slouch to abyss.
I gather the crumbs of hiatus.

The blank where evil held.
The hole called beholden.

That phantom glyphs resound, that
lacunae be burnished.
That it not be leached from memory: once,
earth meant otherly.


I admit that I had to look up a couple of those words.  But I really like this poem.  It's become the text for today's improv.  (Day 200!  I kind of can't believe it.)  A lot of the phrases are switched around.  And it's clear, now, that if I'm gonna sing anymore, I've got to improve my enunciation.  Even I can't understand what I'm singing half the time.  Disclaimer: voice cracks and out of tune pitches.

Here we go, Day 200: https://ia600807.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv3112/20120301214507.mp3

If I live...

If I live to be 80, I will have lived roughly 16% of the time during which codified classical music has existed (starting around 1550).  My mind was blown when I realized that.  16% is a pretty large percentage, if you think about it.  So much has changed in such a short amount of time, and it makes me reflect on how quickly things are evolving at this very moment, and the importance of what is occurring musically.

The other day I said to a friend that I believed we were in the midst of a modern Renaissance.  Those are pretty big words, but I based that statement on the existence of current technology, which is (obviously) also evolving and progressing at an alarming rate.  The technology available has put music and a multitude of access channels at the fingertips of virtually everyone.  And everyone now has the ability to experiment at whim for a negligible amount of money and/or training.  Add to that, that art feeds on art.  The potential to find the most talent is now at its highest for all of these reasons, and more.

Am I happy about the saturation of the market?  I don't know.  Hadn't really thought about that.  I suppose I am... I like art, and I like when people get excited about it.  So in a way, technology is opening the doors for many people to be creative.

On the flip side, I've always been a fan of tactile creation, and I think technology has drawn people away from that.  For me, the sensation of touch is so expressive in itself, and it lets me feel the experience of creating physically.  Even when I write here, directly onto the computer, it's just getting words out.  I don't feel like it's really writing.  I miss the sound and scratch of the pen (I know exactly which pen, too.  Pilot Precise v5.  Yes, they can smear... just let it dry!) and the smell of the ink and paper.  I like the way the sheet feels on the side of my palm as I move my hand across the page.  I also like the way that my handwriting changes depending on my mood, or how furiously I need to get the words into physical form before they vaporize.  I like the slow spread of the ink pigments into the fibers of the paper when I linger on a punctuation, finalizing what is most likely a profoundly true, often brooding statement.  And I like that, if you look closely enough, the blot doesn't expand as a perfect circle, but follows an uneven nest of filaments.  I like the sound that my pen makes when I tap its cap on my notebook, in a rhythmic ponder to the next phrase.  I love all of that.  And you just don't get that when you type your thoughts directly into a machine.

You know what I hate?  The glow of the computer screen.  It gives me the same unrested feel I get when I'm in a small room (or even a big one, for that matter,) with cheap, fluorescent, hazy green, ceiling lights.  *shudder*  Computers are totally necessary, of course, and mine has served me well (though equally a time-suck).  But I'll always prefer to touch and smell my notebook.

What a rambling post...

Here we go, Day 199: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/35/items/Improv22912/20120229150715.mp3

Absence.

It breaks my heart a little, when I have to miss important moments in the lives of people I care about.  It's weird to feel my own absence in a time place I never was.  That may be incredibly narcissistic to say, and probably no one else notices.  But in the right moments, I feel it heavily.

Yet... despite that twinge of suffering in missing, I send giant, happy heaps (overwhelming, even) of celebratory excitement and energy as much as I can.  I only hope it can be felt over such great distances.

And if there's the other thing, a moment of dark, I miss being there for that honor, too.  For truly, if someone can share their dark with you, it really is a privilege.

Here we go, Day 198: https://ia700808.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv22812/20120228213426.mp3

ROAR!

Today I said one of the smartest, most intuitive things I've ever said.

Rhythm creates expectation.

I mean, duh.  How I did not put this into words earlier is a complete mystery, because it's something that's been on the tip of my brain for a long time.  I wish I were better musically with rhythm.  I'm not as good as I want to be.  I can dance with an insane and accurate rhythm to melt concrete, but for whatever reason, when it comes to making music, I get overly wrapped up in agogics.  It's very frustrating, because I often feel it all working in the moment, but it never seems to translate that well when I listen back.

Anyway, teaching is so simultaneously mundane and fascinating.  If you pay attention, things like the above will just slip from your lips at the most unexpected moments.  That particular phrase fell out to an eight year old who was playing a piece called, "Tiger Stalking."  I explained to him that there was no way anyone was going to be surprised if he played the ROAR! cluster after a series of arhythmic nonsense.  They're not set up to expect anything in time, and if there is no expectation, then there's no suspense.  Then I played it for him in rhythm, and even though he knew exactly what was coming, I still managed to get a genuine gasp and jump after a carefully timed fermata.  So even if he forgets that "rhythm creates expectation," which I doubt he will, after our lengthy experimentation and laborious counting, I will not forget it.  I needed the reminder probably more than he did.

Go on ahead, now.  Apply that to life.  Because, of course, like almost all of this other dribble, this too can be considered a metaphor.

Here we go, Day 197: https://ia600808.us.archive.org/2/items/Improv22712/20120227152734.mp3

Serendipity.

One of the most amazing feelings is improvising with someone, and, without a word or look, you've fallen into perfect sync and every breath of expression is from your singularly shared body.  At those moments, everything locks in, and the metaphysical world becomes as easy to understand as 2+2.  But it usually doesn't last long.  Usually, those moments pass as quickly as they come.  If you're lucky, you can ride them out through the end of a piece.  If you're really lucky, 'til the end of the program.  If you're really, REALLY lucky, you get your magic just about every time you play with that someone.  Your extra bonus is if you find it with someone you've never improvised with before.

Let me clarify, also, that this feeling of improvisation is not limited to music.  The sentiment extends well into every day life.

For example, you're on a crowded train.  You see something very subtly hilarious happen right in front of you (I wish I could think of a specific example).  No one seems to notice, except you look across and make eye contact with a complete stranger that has seen the exact same thing.  Quick pause = moment of realization. Then you both burst into laughter.

That's just a little thing; the unexpected caramel chew that your friend produces from their pocket on a walk to the park.  Even so, don't you feel a pulse of dopamine when it happens?

Anyway, the improvisations in life are many, but the shared improvisations are the ones that satisfy.  Someone to share the miracle with.  And here's what's really interesting: as momentary as the example I gave, there are improvs equally lengthy.  That go here, go there, go where... and from the inside it looks nebulous, but if you're clever and curious, you get to see what serendipity is all about.

Here we go, Day 196: https://ia700809.us.archive.org/23/items/Improv22612/20120226190641.mp3

Hype.

Hype is hype.

I may have eaten an octopus alive tonight, wriggling tentacles and all, but that doesn't forgive the overcooked shellfish, and scarily unsafe oysters that sidelined the evening.

Some things are worth it.  Other things are not.  Despite an overall rating of D+, I'm still glad I went for it.  I mean, really, how often do you get live octopus?  That portion was completely delectable.  Will I go back?  Probably not.  Will I tell tales about suctions sucking at my cheeks?  Most likely, yes.  And, well...

... now I know.

Here we go, Day 195: https://ia700803.us.archive.org/19/items/Improv22512/20120225172339.mp3

Taxi.

Get in a cab.

Cabby says, "How is your life?  Tell me everything!"

I'm a little dumbstruck.  I usually just get in, and watch out the window.  I don't know what to say.

"Everything is great!  Life is pretty great!  I feel really blessed to have had all the experiences that I've had."

"Yes, life is great.  I am so blessed, too."

I don't tell him anything I know about Bangladesh.  He volunteers a story about a passenger opening the door into traffic last night, rendering a $1000 repair bill.

I don't really feel like chatting it up, but I want to share a conversation with him, because I'm sure he's had a long, lonely night.  And it can't be easy... transients passing in and out of his taxi for twelve hours straight.  Being surrounded by strangers all the time is the loneliest feeling in the world.  I can stand it for a while, but after a few weeks, I start to get homesick.  And not even for a place that I call home, but for people I call home.

So that being said, even though I pretty much feel like New York is home now, I'm still homesick all the time.  Sometimes, I'll even be sitting right next to you, and everything is normal, and calm, and easy.  And if I think about it for just a moment and pay attention, I'll be homesick for you.  I don't really know what that feeling is called.  I wrote about something like it a few months ago: saudade.  Maybe that is it.  It's a weird feeling, because nothing is actually wrong, but for some reason, there's a twinge of sadness or melancholy.  I have some questions about this, but really, there's no reason to pose them here.  I guess the point I'm trying to make is that happiness and sadness are two sides of the same coin.  And I won't elaborate on it anymore, because my words just don't make sense.  For goodness sake, I didn't even drive home the story about the cabby.  And won't.

Here we go, Day 194: https://ia600802.us.archive.org/21/items/Improv22412/20120224200804.mp3

Creation.

I had a whole thing started here about creation, and what it might be like to be God, looking down on his beloved little planet, seeing social evolution, being sad or wanting to interfere or maybe not wanting to.  But it's not really what I want to write about tonight, so I erased it all, and typed this up instead.  The point of what I was going to write about is how creations begin to take on lives of their own if they have some kind of soul to them.  And how there's only so much control one has over something living.  And even with infinite control, one wouldn't want to impose it, because controlling any outcome would be taking away any specialness that would unfurl naturally from the creation.  And the specialness is why one would love it.  Yikes.  I could go on, but I'm feeling a little knocked out.  I can't express what I've been thinking.

So I'll write about something else. 

Tomorrow, when I'm not so wiped.  I nearly fell asleep just listening to the improvs.

Left hand only.  Sarabande.

Here we go, 192: https://ia700808.us.archive.org/24/items/Improv22212_302/20120222212523.mp3

Gratitude.

My utmost gratitude to you who have given me opportunities to experience life in a boundless explosion of energy, understanding, love, strength, expression, and curiosity.  Living out the "what if" has been my fortune and privilege.  I wouldn't trade it for anything.  Far beyond any attempt to cover up any of those trails, wherever they've led, I'd rather secure a footprint to those places.  An etching into a tree trunk; outlined by a crude, but happy little heart.  And the purity and beauty and honesty in everything we've shared will not be forgotten.

Now.

Turning. the page...

Here we go, Day 191: https://ia600802.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv22112/20120221193827.mp3

Doom.

Doomed??? No.

It's all about perspective.

Hanging with a friend tonight.  He thinks he's in a bind.  And honestly, he is.  BUT... the important thing to remember is that there are always choices.  We think there aren't, because we've preconcluded what to expect from current situations.  That some options are not options.  But there they are.  Don't discount them.  I see my friend's doom as his opportunity.  Just a shadowy and unexpected avenue.

But sometimes...

... Sometimes those are the most interesting, most valuable avenues.

From what I can assess, and as a totally outside point of view, he's about to embark upon an unknown.  A push into his next greatness.  Somewhere he would not have gone without this scary thrust.

So.  Remember this.  The blessing of the bind.

Here we go, Day 190: https://ia700807.us.archive.org/14/items/Improv22012/20120220212608.mp3

Harlem.

Today I heard a wonderful performance by the Harlem String Quartet.  I went to the show not knowing exactly what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised (by that I mean surprised, and not surprised), far beyond my expectations, by an amazing program and stellar playing.  These guys gave me goosebumps, and made me remember how entertaining and amusing classical music can be.  So inspiring!

Many memories followed, bringing me back to the days I spent on 130th Street.  How perspective changes and calibrates from moment to moment.  And the associations we keep.  

Here we go, Day 188: http://ia600803.us.archive.org/20/items/Improv21812/20120218190244.m4a