2011. Space Odyssey.

The year is saying goodbye tonight, and the world looks back in reflection on 2011.  I don't get too nutso over things like this.  I think I've already done a lot of that lately, anyway.  But it's worth noting that 2011 was one of the best and worst years of my entire life.  This was a year of pondering psychological and emotional anthropology.  Of awareness and mystery.  This year tested the limits of my patience and endurance in many ways, and I'm happy to say that I still haven't found their end.

I'm thirty years old, and I'm still discovering things that delight me every day, and I still believe in the goodness of people despite their shortcomings, and mine.  If next year is anything like this year, it's gonna be a rough ride, but if I can come away from it with what I just wrote, I'll be happy as ever.

Peace and love.

And all the other sappy stuff.

Here we go, Day 139: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/3/items/Improv123111/12_31_117_11Pm.mp3

Goodbyes.

The ride from the farm to the airport was a little mixed.  It was a good three hours with just sister talk.  It's been a while since that's happened.

Although I was bummed that I didn't get to see my folks at all this Christmas (except via Skype), the alternative several days at the farm have been pretty amazing, in a very calm and relaxed sort of way.  When I told Ana we only had one sleep left together last night, she said, "Awwww-wwww..." the way little kids do.  And today she looked very sad as I held my arms out for a big hug.  It's hard to leave my sister's family, as it is always hard to leave my parents every time they drive me to the airport.  I am so far removed from that Minnesota life when I'm in New York, it's hard to even put my finger on all the things I'm missing.  But it doesn't really matter if I can't quantify it.  It's my family, and it's hard to be away.

Maybe it was that knowledge that made me all weepy when natural disaster came up, and I told Joy about a letter I had received this past August from one of Lyra's biggest Vermonter supporters about the devastation following the hurricane.  I couldn't even finish the story without stopping to take a big gulp of air.  And then I had to go and tell her the plot to Madame Butterfly.  I just can't get through the end of it without crying.  I'm not even talking music... I'm talking synopsis.  When my roommate long ago read it to me for the first time, I started sobbing like a baby.  Which led to a memory of seeing La Boheme at the Met with both Akiko and my sister.  At the end, when the lights went up, we were all in tears, feeling "nobody look at me!!"

Ah.  Goodbyes.  They're pretty much the hardest thing ever.  Physically I make myself turn around and walk in the opposite direction, because for the most part, it must be done.  But emotionally, I don't know if I've ever said goodbye to anyone and meant it.

Well, maybe once.  More on that... em... never.

Here we go, Day 138: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/8/items/Improv123011/12_30_118_08Pm.mp3

Raw milk.

I derive pleasure from many things, but one of my favorites on the farm is raw milk.  Nothing quite like it.  I'm currently sitting back, relaxing, while the children are asleep, sipping a delicious stove-top hot chocolate with a wonderful base of creamy raw milk.  I love the singed taste that is hinted in the background, begotten from cooking the milk on the stove itself.  None of that microwave business.  It is one of the best hot chocolates I've ever had, if I do say so myself.  Not quite as decadent as my recent Italian hot cocoa from Eataly, but still very tasty indeed.  ;-)  I'm sure part of it is the surrounding experience: my sister, brother-in-law and I, all conglomerating in the living room in front of a toasty fire, enjoying our last evening together, sounds of sawing wood seeping out from the kids' room.

Here we go, Day 137: https://ia600806.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv122911/12_29_118_42Pm.mp3

Castle.

The knight is a jerk.  I wanted to put the whole story on here, but that would've taken a long time with the bandwidth at the farm.  It took two hours, in fact, just to upload one scene.  There was also the king trying to save the queen (oh, and he put the knight in jail, by the way,) and the king getting eaten by the dragon, and the blue townsman saving the queen.  Stick around for the sequel.  Especially if I can get dolls that have moveable eyebrows and mouths.

Here we go, Day 136: https://ia700807.us.archive.org/30/items/Improv122811/12_28_115_22Pm.mp3

Hot toddy.

My nieces and nephew are unbelievably cute.  And hilarious.

Now that they're all asleep, I might skip a long blog entry and play with the toy castle they got for Christmas.  It has a dragon... and a dungeon.

And happy birthday, Dad.  :)  

Here we go, Day 135: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/33/items/Improv122711/12_27_119_52Pm.mp3

Gatsby.

I love antique shops.  I could spend hours and hours in a good one, and lose myself to time.

Today found a few treasures... an art deco (I love art deco) thermostat (yeah, I just wanted it for the cool clock face, but I'll probably end up using it as a bookend, unless I can wire it for batteries), a pretty sweet 1907 windup alarm clock that still works, and the piece de resistance (I wish I knew the shortcuts for accents), a 1931 Victrola portable phonograph player that still works.  I got a few phonographs, as well, lest I have nothing to play on my new toy.  It was $44, and money well spent, if only for the wide-eyed, gape-mouthed expression I must've made when it produced its first crooning tones for us.  SO COOL!  I couldn't have left without it.

And then, just moments later, some random young guy wandered into the store, saw what we were oohing and ahhing over, and began to tell us all kinds of things about the machine.  A remarkable twist of serendipitous fabric, he turned out to know pretty much everything about phonographs... Edison vs. Victrola, steel needles vs. Tungs-tone, 45s vs. 78s, etc, etc.  He went on and on... from the felt being made out of mohair, to the springs inside being about 30 feet long, and covered in graphite.  Anyway,  I now have a personal expert to help me out whenever I have a question about my new, old turntable.

I love the sound of this thing.  Got me some Heifitz, some Bizet, a one-step, a two-step, a couple fox trots, a blues, and a handful of other fun little gems.  Can't wait to give it a good crank, and sit back in my chair with a chilled martini in hand.  I don't really drink martinis, but I'll do it once or twice for effect... pretend that F. Scott Fitzgerald is over for cocktails or something.

And I now have a frame of reference for that sound they put in movies of a record dying, and then being wound back up.  You know that sound I'm talking about?

Here we go, Day 134: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv122611/12_26_118_05Pm.mp3

Three kings.

It's really fun to watch little kids open presents on Christmas morning.  Exhausting, too, but really fun.

As usual, there's a lot I'd love to write.  Actually, there are a lot of pictures I'd want to post, but the internet connection is on the slow side right now (unbearably so, in fact), so those will have to wait until another time.

But, the sunrise was beautiful (my observance of which was aided by the promise of Santa's visit), the sunset was truly breathtaking, and after dark, we were able to see the glow of Minneapolis against the clouds, even at 160 miles away.  And then, into the night, Orion, his belt, and yonder Sirius, were clear as could be... almost like if we were to make the journey, we would reach that brilliant star.  It twinkled with such intensity, and almost touched the cresting horizon.  I wanted to stare at it for hours, but it was just a bit too cold, and the fireplace was beckoning.

Here we go, Day 133: https://ia700803.us.archive.org/25/items/Improv122511/12_25_117_54Pm.mp3

Stars.

Wow!  Lots that I could write about tonight.

Found out that my brother-in-law would be a philosophy professor if he were to follow his passions.  That, plus a three hour drive to the farm made for some interesting conversation.  The question of existence and how do we trust it, anyone?  Realism vs. materialism.  Descartes.  Shortly thereafter began the DNA discussion, and a lecture he heard about the way that DNA coils, and how that affects what type of cell you'll have.  Super groovy.  And that led to discussion of artificial intelligence vs. consciousness.  Which then circled back to realism and existence, and the line between life and death. Wow.  I'm glad I've got almost an entire week here... I'm totally ready to explode some brains, mine included.

Two Christmas surprises.  First, my sister-in-law, Jodi, woke up at 6am to bake some cookies that I had indirectly requested on facebook, without really expecting anything.  For the record, they were the peanut butter ones with a hershey kiss in the middle.  I love those.  Especially if the chocolate is all melty from being pressed onto the hot cookies.  It wasn't, but I'll take what I can get.  (Melted chocolate is the bees knees.)

Second Christmas surprise: One year ago, my sister brought three little orphaned kittens to my parents because they were too little to be left at the farm without any care.  Joy and Dan were trying to find a home for them because they already had too many farm cats, and these sweet, little ones were not going to do too well there for long.  So my sister and her husband put an ad on craigslist.  And in the morning, they brought the two tabbies over to an elderly woman's house whose cat had just died.  (The woman's family had only been looking for one kitten, and my sneaky sister and brother-in-law brought both for them "to choose," hoping they would take both.  They did.)  That left poor little Tinkerbell all alone, for the first time without brothers and sisters.  My mom, who is on the finicky side, did not want the farm kittens in her house, for a few reasons (including possible parasitic worms and allergy suffering), but we'll leave it at that she's just finicky.  However, the basement, where the kittens had been staying, is super, super cold.  And I felt super, super bad.  Plus I love kittens.  And being a softy who loves kittens, I couldn't let little Tink stay down there all alone, without sibling warmth and cuddles, in a tiny, cold, concrete-floored confinement.  So I let her sleep with me.  (Much to mom's dismay.)  And she curled up in a soft, purring, little ball, and nestled down deep, next to my belly, where she was warm and protected.

Anyway, the Christmas surprise was, after all that story, a one year old, very sweet and affectionate leg rub from Tinkerbell upon arrival.  Cutest and friendliest little thing, she's still all cuddles and purrs.  I wish she could sleep with me here, but she's now a full fledged farm cat: not allowed inside.  My greatest disappointment in humanity is that people don't purr.  It really is so appropriate for many occasions. 

Ah yes, and I can't forget the stars.  New moon means many, many more stars.  Love.

Here we go, Day 132: https://ia700801.us.archive.org/22/items/Improv122411/12_24_1111_52Am.mp3

Oh, and starting today, I finally got smart enough to check the box that says, "Open link in a new window."  So, now you can listen and read at the same time.  Christmas smartedness!!

Leper.

Midday, met with Christmas disappointment.  All I wanted was to be well when I went home, but of course I got sick, and now I'm going to be shipped off to my sister's farm as soon as our holiday dinner is over so that my germs can play tag-team with my nieces and nephew.  S'okay.  I've already had the chicken pox.  But it is a bit of a bummer.  I was really hoping to just sit around watching old westerns and Kurosawa films with Dad while I finished knitting my sweater.  Now I'll be playing pirate with Ana and Toby, while my sweater sits gloomily unfinished in my suitcase.  Can't wait to see what pirate name they assign me, though.  (Ana is Pirate Arrrrr, and Toby is Pirate Ahoy.  Joy is Pirate Ticklesme... or something like that.)  And of course, it will be only the second bit of time I've gotten to spend with baby Claire.  So there's a bonus.

I am a little bit concerned with when I will be able to squeeze in improvs.  Not to fret, though.  I won't give up just because of three little ruffians running around.  Not my style.  I might integrate them into the recordings, though.  The question is... how...?

Here we go, Day 131: https://ia700802.us.archive.org/23/items/Improv122311/12_23_118_36Pm.mp3

Have you ever seen a happier poxed little boy?

Honesty.

I was asked once what my greatest motivator in life was, and my answer was expression.

One day, when I was a young girl about 7 or 8, my dad and sister came home from a walk, strongly shaken up.  My dad was in near hysterics as he told us what had happened on their way.  There was an accident which occurred right in front of them.  Two girls on bikes, inches in front of my sister, had been thrown into the air, and across the street.  I don't remember now what had happened to them.  I'm sure they were severely injured.  My dad was clearly thanking God that my sister hadn't been a step closer to the curb.  Both my dad and sister escaped unscathed, but I was in tears upon hearing their account.  Even recalling the story now, as common as this one might be, I choke up and have little wet puddles on the brims of my eyes.  I said, quietly, to my dad, "We don't tell each other enough that we love each other.  We need to do that."

I don't know why my dad remembers this event so well, but to my bashfulness, he tells it often.  He recalls it with the air of a fable... more for the moral rather than the story.  And I can't help it... every time he brings it up, my heart swells with the fear that I might not get the chance to express my heartfelt love and affection for the people around me before it's too late.

And so I have gone forth into life, with a quietly overwhelming urgency to share whatever I am feeling as soon as I feel it, in an act of spontaneity that feels like I have taken in too much oxygen, and with complete disregard to understanding myself or even caring.  It might be a dangerous game for some, but not for me.  There's no shame in honesty of the heart.  The real peril is in losing our opportunities to express.

So, the music.  Don't know where all this Americana is coming from, but here it is again.

Here we go, Day 130: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/19/items/Improv122211/12_22_119_46Pm.mp3

Solstice.

Forgoing a lengthy blog post tonight in favor of "actual work."

I love tonight.  And just in this very moment, one strong gust blew that tropical night away, and became a chilly winter evening.  The leaves left on the tree outside shook, and glittered gold under the street lamp, with the kind of laugh one makes when whipped with cold.  Funny how weather can turn on a dime like that. 

Here we go, Day 129: https://ia600806.us.archive.org/23/items/Improv122111/12_21_117_59Pm.mp3

Ingredients.

Over dinner tonight, improv inevitably came up as a main topic of conversation.  I explained the dilemma I often have, of chasing down what I believe "should be" on my palette of colors vs. using the colors that come in the box.  Trying to use colors that aren't there, but that I might be able to mix.  It seems obvious what needs to happen here... maybe it just took an abstract metaphor to get me to realize it.

Anyway, the ingredients metaphor also came up: having to make a meal out of whatever is in your fridge.  The proposed ingredients list was: iceburg lettuce, an onion, some leftover beans, and mustard.  If you ask me, those are some pretty bad ingredients to try to make something tasty from, but if you've got to do it, you do it.  And then you eat it.  And you make the best of it.

Now: improvise.

Today, something a little Ivesian/Rzewskian.  Decidedly American.

Here we go, Day 128: https://ia600708.us.archive.org/29/items/Improv122011/12_20_118_51Pm.mp3

Superpro.

Aghhhh!  I'm procrastinating!!  Instead of writing my blog post, I'm screwing around on facebook.  Curses!

Here we go, Day 127: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/11/items/Improv121911/12_19_118_46Pm.mp3

Chronos.

When I started this blog, I knew there would probably come a day when the writing started to fall away, and the time I spent philosophizing on here would diminish.  That time has come, friends.  I started to notice it a couple of weeks ago.  It's a busy time of year.  I want to write more.  I'm certainly thinking about a lot of things.  Lately I've felt there just aren't enough hours in the day to do all of what I'm supposed to do (of which I've hardly done any).  I propose the 26-hour day.  That would really help me out with my messed up circadian rhythm, which I'm convinced is on a cycle way longer than 24 hours.  Woe is me.

I promise, though, that as soon as I find the odd hour, I will write furiously every notion I've got in my skull.

Here we go, Day 126: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/10/items/Improv121811/12_18_118_52Pm.mp3

Wassailing.

In typical naysaying fashion, Erich refused to accept that "wassailing" is actually pronounced "wah-sul-ing."  I don't know the phonetic alphabet.  You'll have to use your imagination.

Despite an automatic cringe that I have developed over the years from hearing badly arranged Christmas carols played haphazardly in October at every shop in NYC (think: midi-accompanied pan flute rendition of 'Do You Hear What I Hear?' at Chinese-run Japanese restaurant), I do think it's fun to sing them with a bunch of other drunk people.  Call it a guilty pleasure.  'O Holy Night' is the best one.

Here we go, Day 125: https://ia600809.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv121711/12_17_114_24Pm.mp3

L train.

I don't think I was the only one that got screwed by the L train tonight.  I waited while we were stalled in the station for a good 35 minutes or more.  When they started letting people out, the guy next to me said, "Good luck getting home..."  I didn't know if that was sarcastic or friendly.  Hard to tell with hipsters. 

In some weird way, though, I didn't really mind the wait, the exile off the train, the quarantine to Manhattan.  I was strangely hoping for a long walk tonight.  And I didn't make it to my friend's show, didn't get to hang with my posse, and was forced to walk the length of 14th St....  That was sublime.  It's probably the first time, and most likely the last time, that I will have referred to 14th St. as sublime, but at the moment, I couldn't have asked for more.

Well... there were a few things missing, but... I try to count my blessings.

Here we go, Day 124: https://ia600805.us.archive.org/7/items/Improv121611/12_16_119_17Pm.mp3

Where we are. Now.

Nick came into town today after ten months of world traveling, and it was the first time in a long time, over a year, since the main members of my original NY family got together for a beer.  (Though we were still missing a few beloved tonight....)

Conversation was the same brilliant banter that can only occur between friends that have seen the best and worst of each other.  Marc told one of the best jokes I've ever heard.  We were all tired: Jaimie was sick but managed to throw back a few -- transparent, cool, damp snot rag in hand; Nick fresh off a plane from Rio via Panama; the rest of us straight from long days at work.  But the hang was comfortable and loving.  It's amazing the bonds that develop between people that are biologically unrelated.  I could do absolutely anything or nothing in the presence of these people, and they would love me all the same.  What did I do to be so lucky?

Nick asks, "So, what's new?"

It's been a year, right?  So obviously a lot has changed, but of course the answer was, "Not much, really.  Everything, but nothing."  And it's true.  On the surface, things are more or less the same, but below that, on many levels, life is completely different from one year ago.  I reflect on that deeply and scrutinizingly.  It really blows my mind.  2011, a year of incredible change, has brought everything, from darkest dark to highest high.  A lot of adventure, exploration, philosophy, danger, excitement, introversion, extroversion, capture and release, light dabblings, full immersions, rejection, disappointment, heartache, heartfill, forced patience, understanding, acceptance, strength, solitude, perseverance, wonder, clarity and confusion.  And let's not forget curiosity.

Always curiosity. 

Here we go, Day 123: https://ia700807.us.archive.org/17/items/Improv121511/12_15_118_12Pm.mp3

Vague.

It's kind of hard to come up with something to say when my senses are overloaded with Bartok.  I have to pick some cello rep to accompany this coming summer, and I think I've found one I like. :)

Word of the day: vagueness.

Here we go, Day 122: https://ia600708.us.archive.org/27/items/Improv121411/12_14_118_59Pm.mp3

Besame mucho.

Where DO we go when? 

It's good to feel like I'm making deliberate decisions. 

You know Dickens?  The best of times, the worst of times?? Yup.  That pretty much sums it up.  I feel privy to a perspective that is generally fleeting... I'm seeing in on the present.  Not quite like hindsight, but more like an out of body experience.  And with this sense of balance, order, entropy and chaos.  No, it's not all perfect.  But I see all of the little offshoots... the ones that could carry me into different worlds, and the eddies that linger before swirling away into the undercurrent.  It's quite an experience... the most interesting part of it, seeing where I'm in control, and where I'm not.

Here we go, Day 121: https://ia600807.us.archive.org/6/items/Improv121311/12_13_117_42Pm.mp3

Le gibet.

And in the city that never sleeps, I find myself in a cloud of excitement, exhaustion, stimulation, and thirst.  And in the last week or two, tenfold.

Second attempt at diligent website redesign.

Here we go, Day 120: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv121211/12_12_118_03Pm.mp3

No thanks, past self.

I honestly thought I would be thanking my past self for doing my blog post early on in the evening, but alas, it just ended up being premature.

I was lucky enough to be persuaded into an improv with two awesome musicians, who egged me on to play with them.  I won't lie.  I was super, super nervous about it.  But after a drink or two, I was able to do it, and whether I let go or not will be for you all to decide.  It was really fun, and very good for me, and I'm super glad to have done it.  Thanks, guys.  It means a lot.

And now, I present my first actual improv with other people.

Here we go, Day 119, Part 2: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/22/items/Improv2121111/12_11_1110_12Pm.mp3

Thanks, past self.

Today is one of those days when present self is doing something nice for future self.  Because I know I'm not gonna want to do this when I get home later.

Here we go, Day 119: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/19/items/Improv121111/12_11_116_22Pm.mp3

Brew.

I feel a little bit bad that I haven't been writing so much lately.  But I assure you that my thoughts, about life and music and such, are still strongly brewing.  To a respectably meaty 12% or something.  After the fermentation process, we'll all enjoy a hearty toast.  And thoughts will abound on cyber paper, amidst a creamy, lathery, sweet head atop a deliciously effervescent beverage.

Here we go, Day 118: https://ia700708.us.archive.org/28/items/Improv121011/12_10_117_01Pm.mp3

Moon.

When what I wish is to see the lunar eclipse, but then I find myself on the wrong coast... than what?

Here we go, Day 117: https://ia600802.us.archive.org/28/items/Improv12911/12_9_118_06Pm.mp3

Good.

And it was...

Here we go, Day 116: https://ia600804.us.archive.org/13/items/Improv12811/12_8_118_17Pm.mp3

Passage.

With miles to go before I sleep, (of website updating, that is,) I think it best not to use up all of my creative energy on tonight's blog entry.

I will throw in there that today brought more life experience, and with it, anxiety that was probably unwarranted.  We are silly creatures, blessed and cursed with our ability to love and create.

Here we go, Day 115: https://ia600805.us.archive.org/31/items/Improv12711/12_7_118_21Pm.mp3

Never know.

I've probably written something about this before, but... what a difference a day makes.

The things I didn't know yesterday are the things that hit heavily today.  Or at least they were unexpected.  It's interesting to look into the future, and guess at what lies in wait.  Fortunately, a lot of the best things are complete surprises.  Then again, so are some of the worst things.  But even when those worst things catch us off guard, we can remember that this reality is only here.  And rest assured, there is a there.

It's a good reason to plan loosely, and live spontaneously, wouldn't you say?

Here we go, Day 114: https://ia600805.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv12611/12_6_118_23Pm.mp3

Nude.

The instrumentalist in me said, "Are you serious?  Don't."  But the experimenter in me said, "Do it, do it, do it!!"

So, with much momentary trepidation, and the power of spontaneous improv to back me up, I did it.

Now, this ain't rocket science, seems like no big deal, probably nothing at all to anyone else.  But it still freaked me out.  With a bit of patience, you'll know what I'm talking about. 

Man, I don't even know if I can publish this online.  I know this is silly, but it makes me feel a little naked.


Here we go, Day 113: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/22/items/Improv12511/12_5_113_02Pm.mp3

Some things.

It must be a sure sign of winter that I baked banana bread today.  Often I don't spare the time for it, but I needed to use up the abundance of black alien pods in my freezer, that usually provoke looks of concerned alarm from friends who just wanted some ice cream.

Baking = winter.  I'm a girlie-girl after all.

Here we go, Day 112: https://ia600809.us.archive.org/27/items/Improv12411/12_4_115_49Pm.mp3

Experiments.

Ever since I was a little kid, I have seen lines and shapes in nature and day to day objects, and imagined them as pictures of faces, bodies, and animals.  I specifically remember daydreaming in the shower, looking at the marbelized tiles, and seeing the same things in them each time, like old, familiar paintings.  Sometimes they would freak me out, because the face was something scary and distorted, and I had to purposefully avert my eyes from that spot, because the image was so vivid.

I like noticing hidden messages.  It makes me feel like I know something special that other people don't.

And I'm getting more and more comfortable with piano's hidden message.  I was complaining the other day (as I often do,) that I can't crescendo on a single note on a piano.  But today, I was sort of feeling like I could actually do that inside of the piano.  And lots of other cool stuff, too!  There's not really a whole lot of technique developed for this kind of piano playing, but as I explore it, I'm discovering an entirely new range of the instrument's capabilities.  More experimentation to ensue!!!

Here we go, Day 111: https://ia600801.us.archive.org/25/items/Improv12311/12_3_119_04Pm.mp3

Survival.

I'm not sure how I manage the whole late night activity.

And then, somehow, it is.

Here we go, Day 110: https://ia700807.us.archive.org/8/items/Improv12211/12_2_118_43Pm.mp3

Eat cake.

Well, so, I went after something a little different today, in response to what Jesse wrote about yesterday.  I wanted to try it out.  But I couldn't let go, so completely, of form.  I also didn't do exactly what I thought Jesse was suggesting... from talking with him, and hearing what he has to say, I gather that he means to let the brainwaves go, and allow the physical memory/training to kick in.  That the subconscious will come through regardless, and hence prove a purer honesty.  (Jesse, if I'm off the mark, feel free to chime in and correct me.)  Look back to the "Dreams." post, and you'll see that I actually believe this in some sense, as well. 

Here's the difference, though, for why that wouldn't work the same way for Jesse and for me.  Jesse is primarily a jazz musician.  He has gone through extensive training in improvisation.  I have not.  Not ever.  This is a point that I discussed tonight with McIntyre, who knows.  It is true that I have a quarry of classical language that I can fall back onto, but it is a very different skill set.  It is so very difficult to adapt to this alternate way of creating music, and I think that the expectations set by my educational background has skewed my goals.

But anyway, success for this project, as it is judged solely on the process and what I learn, has already been achieved.  The rest is noise.

Here we go, Day 109: https://ia600805.us.archive.org/21/items/Improv12111/12_1_113_14Pm.mp3

(Oooh, I could've made a great reference to Beethoven Opus 109.  Darn!!  Missed opportunity.)

Resuristal.

I've been thinking...

... perhaps in the last twelve hours only... but

... I've been thinking.  First I was thinking about motion.  And then I was thinking about displacement.

... and stream of consciousness.  Filling time.  And what time is.  A measure... and what encompasses a measure.  And a minute... and what encompasses a minute.  And how a measure seems long and then short.  But then a minute is also long and short.  Really, music is so fleeting, and both that measure and that minute happen and pass so without a moment of recognition.

Jesse asked, "Do you feel like you're thinking a lot when you're playing?"

Yes, and then also no.  It depends on the day, it depends on the improv, it depends on my state of mind.  But what matters more is the outcome, right?  Or no?  I've been feeling lately like it's important to have some structure... something to follow to keep things coherent.  And when I'm really invested, there's an unforced "thinking" that happens that keeps me on track.  But if I let myself completely wander, structure usually falls away.  Now, whether that's for better or worse is another thing.

I dunno.  Jesse?

Here we go, Day 108: https://ia700802.us.archive.org/20/items/Improv113011/11_30_113_19Pm.mp3

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

Back.

Today's improv is not worth a flying fart.  And that's honestly what I think.  Don't even worry about it.  It was done in a fleeting moment of home for an instant.  That is all.  Not worth your consideration, not worth mine.  Let's all just enjoy the weather.

Here we go, Day 105: https://ia600802.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv112711/11_27_117_19Pm.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

Thanksgiving.

My nine-year-old niece, Maddie: "I am in complete control of my environment....  Ouch!"

Here we go, Day 101: https://ia600709.us.archive.org/4/items/Improv112411/11_24_119_41Pm.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?

Something inside.

I'm going to just go ahead and say this.

I like this one.

I was cooking at the time.  This explanation will become clear after you listen to the improv.

Here we go, Day 99: https://ia700808.us.archive.org/12/items/Improv112111/11_21_118_36Pm.mp3

Flisssssp!

Sometimes three hours passes in a matter of moments.  I know that can't technically happen, but somehow it does, and we all acknowledge it.

My level of discernment is completely out the window at the moment, in a frantic attempt to catch a reasonable amount of sleep.  I apologize in advance for what you might hear today.

Here we go, Day 98: https://ia700704.us.archive.org/25/items/Improv112011/11_20_111_05Pm.mp3

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

Hummingbird.

The dangers of online used book shopping.  Quite perilous indeed.

Here we go, Day 91: https://ia700709.us.archive.org/13/items/Improv111311/11_13_115_22Pm.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

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

Just is.

I don't know how this sounds to all of you, but it felt just right.  I'm gonna go with it.  Without even listening to it.

It's a one. 

Here we go, Day 86: https://ia600504.us.archive.org/9/items/Improv11811/11_8_119_01Pm.mp3

Take that, reason!

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

Time that happened then.

Well, I meant to get all involved with tonight's post, and write a lot of deep stuff, but somehow it's daylight savings, and even so, 2:57am... so just the improv will have to suffice.  More tomorrow.  Promise.

Here we go, Day 83: https://ia600702.us.archive.org/32/items/Improv11511/11_5_112_08Pm.mp3

p.s. One extra hour = trouble.

Just missed it.

It's 2:53am.  Do you know where your children are?

Here we go, Day 82: https://ia600703.us.archive.org/2/items/Improv11411/11_4_118_52Pm.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.