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.

Sketch.

Ah.

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

Today, not so much.

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

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

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

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

Vaudeville.

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

I thought I was just going dancing.

No.

There was a freak show.

And cabaret.

And burlesque.

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

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

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

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