“The snow falls, each flake in its appropriate place.”

21 August 2013: A bear doesn't waddle out of hibernation and run a half marathon- it lounges, it scratches and it yawns. 

Every now and again, I pry myself out of a dream by straining to open my eyes. In the dream, I am battling a temporary blindness. My perception is covered in thick phlegm as I crawl and flail, trying to grab ahold of something tangible to hoist myself upon. Eventually I awake, run to the can and flop back into a fresh dream. (Think: riding horses through the Yukon Rockies with Teddy Roosevelt or sharing a piano bench with Ray Charles as we sing "Seven Spanish Angels" on the Johnny Cash Show.)

There's something about transition that mirrors these gooey eyed nightmares. I am here early to shake off that haze before starting a new job. 

When I moved to South Carolina after college, I had less than a week to orient myself with the unknown before teaching my first class. I spent months of that first year trying to figure out what happened. 

One day, a few weeks in, a class of third graders bumped me over the edge. The verdict was still out on the mama's boy newb with a penchant for plaid. They decided to prod my patience. The little girl in the magenta dress hollered over our singing that class was "BORING". The avid nose picker with the Carolina Panthers jersey let me know that I looked "ESPECIALLY FAT TODAY". The boy in the back said "THIS BLOWS, LET'S GO TO GYM." and began to rise. It felt like a snowball to the face, packed with rocks of indifference, hurled by 28 little hands. 
There's always a lot to learn. 

While the PE teacher covered my class ("YAY"-boy in the back), I slithered to the administrative wing to hide: "I CAN'T DO THIS, IT'S TOO HARD". Lucky for me, teacher types are teacherly towards one another too. A counselor cradled me and explained how the first year is brutal. I was vulnerable after moving 600 miles from the state I had lived in since birth, from paying rent with my own paychecks and choosing life insurance beneficiaries to investing retirement money and paying property taxes through my car registration (I lived in an apartment complex!). I went from being 22 to 65 on a weekend. 

What really burned was that I couldn't motivate a class of innocent youngins to get behind a Foo Fighters song- a song that had nearly caused me to drive into the ocean on my way to work that morning. Their 'apathy' spiraled through me like a Blue Fox Vibrax ripples through the flesh of a shiny silver salmon. I envisioned myself speeding north, windows down, Zeppelin blaring. 

The last thing the counselor said as she patted me out the door was: "What you perceive as indifference is actually a yearning to learn. Teach them to care by sharing those experiences and feelings. You've skipped a step". I was back in the classroom minutes later with my pride in check and my guitar in hand.
We all walk the long road. 

Six years later, it's a different scene. I'm grateful for the distance traveled since that first year, a result of the tremendous support I've received throughout my young career. I'm especially grateful for each of the musicians I've had the honor of working with- brothers and sisters of the craft. 

this guy is great

22 July 2013:

July 2013

May 2009

either way, it's first flight was in the morning sun

5 June 2013: The pool at my parent's house serves as a breeding and feeding ground for all sorts of beasts and insects. 

Squirrels. Bunnies. Chipmunks. Frogs. Birds. Bugs. 

Throughout the fall I monitored the growth of tadpoles from egg to frog. A few dozen made it. Their society was depleted by the elements: scorching sun, chilly nights, hungry sparrows. I even awoke one night to hear raccoons swimming and gobbling. I threw off the blankets, rushed outside and spooked them off with waving arms. As I fell back asleep, the swimming and gobbling commenced. Life is fragile. 

Now there's a new batch. They are smaller, darker and developing much more slowly. While the raccoons aren't interested in this brood, the dragonfly nymphs are. It's an all you can eat buffet and larvae eat for free. 

Everybody is interested in something: Seconds ago, I watched a dragonfly emerge and wiggle it's wings for the very first time, only to have them plucked and it's body consumed by a tiny bird. As the ants rushed in to take care of the wings, the bird flew into the light of the rising sun. 

Now my coffee is cold and I lost my place in a book.  

fraises et creme fraiche

28 April 2013: You have to listen to Rabih Abou-Khalil. You have to. 

I'm young and can only vouch for two albums: The Cactus of Knowledge (larger ensemble with horn arrangements) and Il Sospiro (solo oud). 

I wish there was a day when the Oud Owl delivered ouds to all the good little boys and girls. 

I've always fantasized about how it must feel to be someone/something else. I wish we could connect ourselves via USB and trade for a few minutes. I speculate that our worlds would plop. What does Lebanese music sound like through Lebanese ears? 

Our ears are born of vast lineage and evolution, as if they all lived and died for us to sit here and listen to tunes with a fresh cup of coffee in hand.

I once played music with an Iranian tar player. He's one of the best musicians I've ever met. One night over fresh Alaskan salmon and a chia seeds drink, we talked about music and culture for a few hours. We ended the night by sight reading some of each other's music. We were both in the mud. Sometimes I still pull out the photocopies and stare at them like old family portraits. 

I just finished Suzuki's Nurtured by Love and am fascinated at how he describes the power of the mother tongue:

"Mother's often say to me, "I am tone-deaf," to explain that their child is the same. They think it is hereditary and that there is nothing they can do about it. But just as nightingales are not born tone-deaf, neither are human infants. On the contrary, a baby absorbs perfectly any out-of-tune pitch of its mother's lullabies. It has a marvelous ear. That's why the child will later sing in the same way." 

I'm not necessarily advocating Suzuki method. I have mixed feelings about pushing very young children towards prodigy when they've yet to roll in autumn leaves, build forts out of quilts and folding chairs and dress their cats in doll attire. Suzuki wasn't advocating for this either, but it does happen. His aim was to supplement childhood with musical performance. I can definitely get behind that. 

Blend it with a cup and a half of Fred Rogers' "Mister Rogers Talks With Parents", and you may have a delicious casserole in your oven: 

"I don't believe that children can develop in a healthy way unless they feel that they have value apart from anything that they own or any skill that they learn. They need to feel they enhance the life of someone else, that they are needed. Who, better than parents, can let them know that?" (or teachers!)

Although my mother tongue is old honky tonk and Bob Seger, I'll continue stewing in the sound of Rabih's oud, hoping to come out the other end with a quarter tone twinge. Listen to him shred here (with Sonny Fortune SCREAMING later on): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysxv8dc4ru4

Here is Yo-Yo Ma's Silk Road Ensemble playing one of his compositions: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAic5B57J9Y

lay in a kayak and read by the cattails

16 April 2013: Once upon a time, I was a camp counselor. 

I laid the foundation of my career and life throughout my summers at that camp, under a canopy of ash, maple and buckeye. In kayaks and canoes. Through creek walks and fire building. Most of the counselors had grown up at that camp. Their bones were hand carved out of local sandstone. My roommate (dear friend) had grown there too and encouraged me to join them. 

As it is with all of these little bits, I could spend the rest of my life rattling on about this. There are real writers who wake up every morning, put on the gloves and lasso down the good ones for us. I recall and relate, like a taxidermist. I'll skip to the end for now. 

Our last summer there felt as if it had gained weight from training to close. Many of us were at the end of our counselorships. We had graduated college. We were moving. We were getting jobs. Families. Marriages. Pet ownership. We knew it was goodbye. 

At the end of each week we'd send the kids off with a ceremonial camp fire. We'd chant a song in a low key as we climbed the hillside towards the fire ring. Once settled in by rank and file, we'd stare at one another across a gargantuan fire and reflect upon our week.
 Flames dancing, moon glowing, children laughing. 

We had decided as counselors that we'd all leave something important behind in that last fire of the year. There it would burn to ash and enter the earth. I decided on a CD.

 Throughout that year in college I was mostly listening to John Coltrane's quartet with Elvin, McCoy and Jimmy. It got to the point where I could hear Coltrane in grocery store commotion or oncoming traffic. "THOSE SQUEAKY BREAKS ARE THE SAME PITCH THAT MCCOY STARTS HIS SOLO TO VILLA ON!" Cues iPod. Nobody cares. 

I loved them all but MY album was Live at Birdland. It's not the kind of album you just throw on for little tea parties. It requires a towel, a firm chair and a supportive pair of shoes. It flosses your ribs with your spine, like a plumber maneuvering a toilet snake. Elvin Jones sounds like an aggravated bull moose. McCoy Tyner sounds like a kangaroo in a room packed with Steinways. Jimmy Garrison seems to be playing a semi truck or a musk oxen, or both. It's a hurricane of perfection. By the end of 'Afro Blue' you'll be hiding under the couch. I guarantee it. WHAT?!

It's through listening to Coltrane's cadenza at the end of 'I Want to Talk About You' that you realize you've found something worth hanging onto forever and ever (amen). He's everywhere all at once, and we're the guests of honor. You can't leave a listen to this album with casual indifference. It's time to live deep because John Coltrane says so with every single note. 

So I tossed it in the flames. I stood over the fire and watched it fade. The plastic melted into toxic goo.  I vowed to take this absence seriously. I also vowed to never throw plastic into fire again. 

At the very end of last month I finally picked up another copy of Live At Birdland. It's a rush to experience such a meaningful album so many years later, with differences galore (same hair cut). Tonight I'm thinking of all of those years at that beloved camp. Where were you seven years ago? What about those times helped nurture you into who you are now? How many haircuts have you had since?  I've had 14. 

I have never lost a game of Monopoly

6 April 2013: In honor of growing another year older, I'd like to take a glimpse at what some other folks were doing during their 27th year (note: none of these folks were sitting around squirting aerosol cheese into their mouths and watching reruns of I Love Lucy): 

-Michael Jordan's Chicago bulls won the first of their many NBA Finals. Jordan was the MVP. 

-Neil Young recorded and released his fourth album: Harvest (my favorite).

-Ernest Hemingway published The Sun Also Rises. 

-Abraham Lincoln received his law license and moved to Springfield to start practicing (bassoon). 

-Ray Charles had his first hit with "I Got a Woman". 

-Michael Jackson co-wrote "We Are The World". Thriller was already a few years behind him. His refrigerator contained less than 3 cans of aerosol cheese. 

-Tiger Woods won the Masters, The US Open, was the PGA player of the year and the leading money winner. 

-Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Robert Johnson and a whole slew of other young artists died. 

-Annie Dillard wrote Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. 

-Henry David Thoreau built a cabin at Walden Pond where he'd chase groundhogs for recreational purposes.

-Rich Uncle Pennybags built 6 hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place only to lose it all at St. Charles. 

duped again.

blueberry

29 March 2013: Every time that yogurt commercial plays, set to Andrew Bird's 'Orpheo Looks Back' off of 'Break It Yourself', my spine crumbles like a saltine into a bowl of turkey chili. (see it here, if needed:YOGURT)

It's an Andrew Bird thing, not a yogurt thing. 

I do like yogurt though. 

I saw Andrew Bird Live at the Murat Theatre in Indianapolis in September. With only a sliver of hesitation, I can say that it was the best concert I've ever been to. (I've seen a lot of great concerts. If you were to surprise me with a list, I might grow flush and embarrass myself for having played favorites. So for now I'll measure it to a sliver and get on with it.) 

They ended the concert with this sort of impassioned, nostalgic drone captured through their magical loop stations. The entire experience was frozen for our exit. The tweeters were still twirling. The tubes were still glowing. But the band was gone, back on the bus eating meatloaf and playing Settlers Of Catan. 

I couldn't move. 

Maybe the good concerts never end. 

As soon as the band left the stage, the crowd hit their feet and flooded the exits. I felt like yelling for them to stop, 'If you don't leave, we can ride this out forever, here in the Murat!' I felt ready to commit to a life in that drone. For a moment I was like a lunar moth caught motionless in a spider's web. Only this lunar moth flew right in, "why not!"

That's only a sliver as to why it was such a remarkable concert. 

When the companion album "Hands Of Glory" came out, I found the loop at the end of "Beyond The Valley Of The Three White Horses". If you're interested, it's here (the loop eases in somewhere around 3 mins. G-F#-E-D): Beyond the Valley of the Three White Horses.