17. Valley of the Fireflies
An illuminated road stretches into the distance.
It’s not often that the moon rests right in front of you, as though tied to a bamboo pole, extended from your rucksack, dangled on fishing wire.
Even more curious: tonight she’s perfectly halved — the finale of a magician’s Act II.
The air smells sweet of wildgrass. Evening has just fallen, and the day’s warmth still pools in pockets — insects buzzing, preparing now for the next scene. They’ll need to work in concert to rope the heavy curtain of night across the stage’s expanse.
Your steps echo in your own ears. Boots atop gravel: crunchety crunch.
[ Pause for a spell, listen to the twilight ] —
A mysterious tune reaches out to you from somewhere across the valley meadow, unmistakably as the smell of fresh-baked sourdough.
Tracking it down would mean tacking to your left, away from the path, into the shadows of overgrown bramble. Secrets kept from moonlight, whispered between trees, alive and fallen.
Fortunately — the night is infinite.
// Side B //
Thank you for tuning in . . . you’ve been listening to Sunday’s morning composition, scored with revelry from a Johannesburg garden1. If you’d like to hear the whole 34-min recording — a meandering goat trail of pentuplets — leave a comment and I’ll send it over to you express by knapsack 🎒.
(The usual term’s “quintuplets” but how could I resist punning pent-up with this impromptu drop of a favorite Sonny Rollins song?)
The timeline accelerates; why not us too?
Spring is here! Those of us intent on remaining curmudgeonly are forced to decide: grouse over joys we never asked for, or replace the charade with cherry blossoms?
After 82 days of daily publication of the composition process, Proof of Play is now ready to be transported from water to soil. I’ve sufficiently proved to myself that — even on days I’m spent; no matter what others might think — I am now able to let myself out.
The question has shifted to:
How can I welcome people in?
I’ve always adored the promise and the visitor’s experience of the Open Studio. Oh, to be a painter in a barn of sawhorses and utility belts encrusted with the dried fruits of canvases constantly repurposed! Surely the highlight of such a life would be those summer weekends, shared with passersby breaking stride to inquire Ah, but what’s this about your process . . . ?
2 days into “writing” morning pages via voice recording — less Dale Cooper, more just . . . guy probably? muttering about donuts — and I’m smitten with touring the local park near my house, in particular a neglected patch full of lichen and weeds that I’ve nicknamed “Scotland”.
Lichen-Scotland was the ideal grounds for stomping around in brainstorms, after being struck by the idea, not unlike a dusting of powdered sugar — that a music-maker ought to be able to offer some form of ongoing, compelling Open Studio experience.
I know it can be done. But my ideas are seedlings and I could use some help —
So, what would you like to peruse in a hypothetical musician’s Open Studio, if there were the means to access the insides of their brain? More tangibly: what curiosities atop a workbench or dangling from pulleys might prompt you to wonder, “Is there a story behind this?”
meanwhile . . .
If anyone’s in Berlin (Germany) on April 23, my music photo-roman Foot of the Carpathians will be screened at Sputnik Kino (tix) — stream it here and now, of course, but know that the showcase will be somewhat of an event!
This moody jazz-trio number is from Travel Poems . Chapter 1 . Secret towns. The video features original writing, and original photography from the Carpathian Mountains area, ending up a full-circle contemplation of dreams, memory, and the feeling of home. The piece offers tribute to Chris Marker’s groundbreaking short photo-roman La Jetée — a hearty must-view recommendation if you haven’t seen.
For anyone who’s curious, here’s the original press announcement of “Foot of the Carpathians”, my very first single as a solo artist. It’s a fun one to play live: always very different due to its wide-open song structure.
my socrates note
There is exclusive music for you, treasured reader . . . and quite the tale to tell about it
A section of the vault, hidden on an unnumbered floor the elevators have been programmed to whisk past unawares, shall be opened soon — and to you first.
Why the high security, the subterfuge? 🤔
Every few weeks I think about Socrates wondering on his deathbed if he should have pursued music. Then I re-remember his description of philosophy as the “noblest and best of music” and I’m triply flabbergasted.
the land where notes drift off to
I am thrilled by how Piano Liberation Workshop #1 (last issue’s announcement) has been sea-faring. First, we sold-out 10 seats for the 5-week course; and what’s even better: the improvisations sent in by students are FUN — and far more exciting + imaginative than what you’d normally hear in a music-learning class.
Could not be prouder of these students! 🍰
Courtesy of the skilled MessyAcousticApocalypse666, titled AMBIENCE 2 CRICKETS EARLY MORNING — Attribution NonCommercial 3.0
very poetic <3
possibly my favorite so far.