Can you see it rising like mist off the pavement?
Can you see it coalescing gray on fabric walls?
Can you see a wave cresting in the air, a following sea?
If you look at someone's head, can you see their mind?
Can you see thoughts form and spring, dissolve, orbit, spiral out, trail behind?
What does attention look like?
Can you see music? --not heads and stems and staves, but notes with evolving shape and color
and motion.
Can you close your eyes and see the shape of an orchestra, and name instruments by genus and species?
Can you see the form of a sonata as it lives?
Can you make out the composer's signature in the corner?
When you look at rain, do you see the river and the sea?
When you look at mountains, do you see sediment? Do you see mountains waiting underground?
If you can see these things, then see one thing more:
The inside of your eye.

I took your life.

I took you from your mother when you were too young to know anything else.
I imprisoned you and shaped your behaviour.
I fed you crust of bread and water.
I teased you.
I left you alone and went out into the world for my own pleasure.
I put you in the hands of strangers when you were sick.
I do things to you that you do not understand, and I claim they're for your own good.
I often ignore you.
And I will decide the hour of your death.

You can make music without notes.

Practice makes perfect; editing makes excellence.

Everyone leaves things unfinished, but a legacy is complete.

There may be 22 other Daves, but there’s only one Dave #23.

An island of happiness eventually is surrounded by sweet water.

Silence is a powerful word.

Live what you write.

Wednesday I went in to work only for a meeting--and long enough to get annoyed by a coworker--then just left. Of course I've thought about retiring, doing something of my own. With the bookstore opening coming up so soon, the idea has a bit of life. It was a cool day but clear, and as I huddled in my jacket breathing in the sun, I almost made the leap. That's the grail of imagination, after all--attaining the feeling when it hasn't happened yet. Yes, I was close to a similar moment when I'll be away from work for whatever reason, but it'll be my work. No safety net, no vampiric cubicle.

Another day that will come is on my mind. If I heard today that Dad died, then the last time I saw him was when we had dinner Sunday. We didn't talk about anything important, just whatever was on our minds that day. For me it was flooring and painting on the bookstore; for him it was adjusting the garage door opener and key entry. We chatted about the restaurant and cars in the parking lot and, as I said, nothing in particular. But then, what should it have been?

I know there's a lot I've never said, and I'll probably hurt because of it, but I do have some honest feelings that it'll be okay: unsaid, perhaps, but I think communicated, perhaps in a better way. For one Anniversary, I got my parents matching drinking glasses with the frosted message "Thanks, Mom" and "Thanks, Dad". For what, I was asked? For college, for taking me to the trout farm when I was nine, for music lessons, for a cute T-shirt. For the big stuff and the little stuff.

Dad told me I was the only one of the kids who said "thank you" for college.

Tonight's gig was a church jubilee camp meeting choir and orchestra with jazz band thing. Several of the soloists took a moment to "testify" before singing. As far as witnessing goes, it wasn't very inspiring, but it was reasonably sincere. What would I have said that was any better? After all, not all of us are struck blind on the roadside and gifted with eloquence like spoken love.

I would say that as a kid I found music in the church, and now I find the church in music. Many homilies speak of universality, usually followed by expression of how one place is special. I can say I've found a bit of a place everywhere I've played--churches, empty rooms, roadhouses, a park next to the Parthenon replica, and once on the waterfront in New Orleans. It's also anywhere I've heard music, more so the better the performance; thus, symphony halls, discotheques, on a sidewalk next to a humming lass, or even in the company of invisibles--radio in the car playing people who were dead before I was born singing songs by people who were dead before they were born.

But that's music. Other people find it in other ways. There's the young woman who bakes chocolate in a shoppe down the road. Monkey Girl also comes to mind, spending her days making a better world for chimps. Actors, my neighbour who just started a gardening and landscaping business, athletes, the autistic kid next door, Dear Readers, and seeing-eye dogs.

When I learn to appreciate someone else's devotion, that's when I'm getting closer to my own.

There are some places you need:

One where everybody knows you.
One where you are a star.
One where you can be yourself without shame.
One nobody else knows.
One where you can go other places.
One you've never seen but could.
One you'd like to visit again.

(begin Beat)

Friday afternoon; work was slow. Everything had to be done, and nobody had anything to do, so I left early and went into the city. Hamlet was playing; at the theatre I met a lovely young lady who works with monkeys. We wore aprons and poured beer and wine together. I walked her to the Hospital parking lot. The next morning I had steak; it was the only meal until Krispy Kreme with Mom at midnight. I gave her a report on the state of the yard, how I'd trimmed the hydrangea and about the weed that's infested my lawn. We put small puzzle pieces inside larger ones. I downloaded the wrong program and failed to fix her computer; she served corned beef. We went to the orchestra concert. At the reception I wore T-shirt and bowtie and played jazz for the musicians. Teenagers and dowagers with their magpie eyes picked up our glossy multicoloured business cards. A young man with long hair in a dark two-piece suit and a dark shirt was introduced to Mesmer. Tomorrow for Palm Sunday the associate pastor at Mom's church is coming out of maternity leave to give the two sermons. Next week I play Hallelujah with them for Easter. Meanwhile, maybe I'll go back to Denmark and see the chimpanzee girl.

(fade Beat. snap fingers. eat scone.)

Imagine it. A playwright presented it beautifully in a piece called "Cathedral"; we watched it last night. The description of how the vision appeared, what shape it took, and how it existed in the solid world--all were evoked with child's wonder. A play is like music that way: it is the world in a bead of water on a spiderweb. In one important way, it's like a rainbow.

A stained glass window is painstaking work. It isn't enough to colour and frost the glass, nor to assemble all the pieces, or even to frame it. There must be context. If it is the only window, a place of honor, centered and high; if one of many, spaced; but principally where it can catch the light. The fulfillment of its purpose waxes and wanes with the weather. Also, it must be in a location whose inhabitants will understand--and be enriched by--its message.

Crystal shatters under impact, but how much more fragile is something that can be marred with a word? A cough, a child's impatient sigh, a chair squeaking against the floor--anything louder than a tear is destructive. It's hard, hard to see music. Perhaps the people who mar it aren't able to see it, but I think it's because they aren't trying. It's a false temptation to call it evil; it's just the way people are, and if they make it more difficult to achieve, we work harder. Sometimes it has to be done by excluding people. After all, there always is an audience, and rainbows are beyond the reach of vandals.

Though the instrument has some seven notes, four is all I need. One is one; two is one and another. Three is one and one superior, one inferior; but four allow a skein of permutations.

A simple pipe flared at one end can sing the rise and fall of kings. Four chapters; twice two coronations; sunset, night, morning, and zenith. The notes rise, fall, repeat, or are silent. In such simplicity hide all the shades of charge and retreat, flourish and taps.

Four seasons; four compass points; soul, spouse, and parents. Four notes cover the range of life: a yellow peal of joy, a red shout of anger, a green for all Neptune's moods, and finally a blue note. All are sounding, all the time, whatever we may hear at any moment. Be wary of the others or take comfort in their near company, but always know that they are there.

In Coconino County, love hits you like a brick to the head. Smaller-than-life people live in a large, empty land--spiritual, asexual sprites against a stark, cthonic landscape. Their speech is like the rock, clipped with tumbling alliteration and thin vowels spun at 78 rpm.
The Bad Boy is not of many words. His bonhomie is baked in a kiln. Like everyone's, his feelings are focused. He commits his crimes with violent vim, never veering, living for the very moment of madness. He knows he will be recaptured and reincarcerated, but resistance is victory.
The Protector is one step behind. He knows he will punish but never prevent. He is proud of his puissant policing. His fondness for the faithful heart hampers him but also is his strength.
The Dreamer is air, not earthy like the others. He is only vaguely aware of the comfort from the Protector's company, but every sin from the Bad Boy is bliss. The land does not heal, and everyone here is an Unrequiter. But the dreamer sits in a whirlwind of precious pains plucked by humming hearts, and he sings of "a heppy lend, fur, fur away."

Like any first-time homeowner, I was a bit scared when I moved in. What's behind the shelves? What was that noise? Is it okay to be here?
Next was the sense that it was more space than I could use. Empty walls frowned at my lack of decoration, empty floors hungered for furniture, empty bookshelves sniffed cardboard on the breeze.

It helps a lot that the cats are here when I'm home, just because there's life in the home, and it's familiar life. And now I feel it a bit more: some pictures framed, a few wall-hanging bugles, the recording equipment and living room couch set up, and of course the clutter. Getting to know the neighbours and becoming comfortable with the neighbourhood make a huge difference. These are things that help me breathe in and grow to fill the space.

And now, in spring, plants pitch in. Last year these denizens of my property were alien to me, strange and wonderful, but something left by the previous owners, something not mine, something asking me who I was. But I have put my hands on them, cultured them, gotten to know them, and even made a few changes and additions. Now they are mine, and the shield of vitality they cast around the house are a part of my inhabitation. I can walk on the carpet of fallen Dogwood blossoms and feel a part of it, see the glowing white azalea as an expression of some joy of mine, and take comfort in the sense of permanence.

Trees last. Perennials return. Throughout spring and summer one group of flowers gives over to the next. This is a wave I can ride when I'm tired from swimming.

The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine. -J. B. S. Haldane

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You’ve seen them, but never straight-on. They touch the corner of your eye, they whisper in your ear before you turn, they are the scent that is gone when you feel the breeze. They never slow down, splining from one almost-maybe to the next; and in each one they are a flashbulb that starts to fade before you even realize it happened.

I’m talking about inspirations and intuitions, stuff that can become art or understanding if tamed. But the same description covers people we see occasionally, who move and age between strobes. Around those evanescent kernels we build a memory that might be something like the real person, to be scattered next time we meet them.

You can modify iterative equations to turn back on themselves, to body forth their scattered travel. For a person, you can cross paths more often by adjusting orbits. Ideas are more subtle. You can form nets of context to catch some—never knowing which ones—or you can collect retinal images until they combine into something new; and you can send out your own ideas in the hope they’ll make friends and return.

I’m going to experiment with idea-affinity applied to people.

As told in many a time management class:
The teacher says, "I'm going to fill this jar," and pours rocks in it up to the top.
"Is it full?" Some students say yes.
The teacher pours in small pebbles, which fill in the spaces. "Now is it full?" The students get the point, and teacher pours in sand, then water.
The lesson is that all spaces will get filled, so we should choose the rocks to put in first--family, home, career, whatever brings fulfillment.

Turning it around, the rocks are the scheduled blocks of time in my day--job, commute, meals, home, sleep. The bigger spaces in and around them can be spent working on projects--lyrics, home repairs, a phone call, practicing. Stolen moments can be simple joys like petting the cats, crossing items off a list, or a quick song on an instrument. And the sand would be back-burner thought about whatever is on my mind.

All that wet sand probably weighs more than the stones.

It's a slippery question, identity. Who are you?

Are you what you do, your name, your place in the family? Are you a member of your profession, a member of your clubs, a resident in your neighbourhood? Are you your religion, your philosophy, your history? Can your hopes and dreams define you better than your situation and actions?

Well, it may not be any thing you can name. You might say it's the common thread that connects all these pieces, but that falls short. The thread might have any shape, be strong or weak, remain defined or change continuously. And however the parts may connect at any time, there's still the world to consider.

I like to think that it's the space between our parts that is our selves, our world; and that the thread is as much a part of that as the ether. I don't know what that means in any way that answers the question, "Who are you?", but I do know the feeling of it.

Dream first, then succeed.

Hesse writes of the identity between visualising something and achieving it: if one, inevitably both; and neither without the other. Passion is coeval with the idee fixe. It makes greatness in a French peasant girl and glory in Milton's fall. Without it, we are condemned with Peer Gynt to the melting pot, raw material, unrealized, gone.

Christa T. illustrates how the vision, the becoming, crystallises as we grow and fades as we age, with one moment to bloom.

When, if not now?

Rajneesh said: Consciousness is like a lake. With waves, it becomes the mind. Without waves, it becomes the soul.

There is fascination in hydrodynamics, beyond the joyful dances and the small patterns; it is beautiful in its dichotomy, unimaginably complex and unbelievably simple. My mind has been a-babbling. There are a hundred things I am ready to say, and I have put a hundred more into words against some future need.

But in the moment I see you, I become standing water, waiting for you to toss a pebble. I have nothing to say and everything to be. It is your time now to speak.

The facade of the building is a flat storefront between an architecture partnership and a porn shop. It's brown with a black and white sign advertising the current special. The shingle hangs over the door with the logo swinging like a stiff flag.

When you walk in, the walls are real-estate white and the stairs are unpainted, unstained wood with beveled edges. Holding the simple handrail, you walk down into a carpeted lobby with nice wood bar and ticket booth, a simple wood throne to the side, and pictures of past successes hanging on the brick wall. Staff pass to and fro preparing for the line of customers that has already formed.

Through a black velvet curtain under a wood archway you enter the main room. Oak and mahogany tables, round and square, on a stone floor are set with padded wood chairs. Most of the tables and chairs have a small plaque memorializing someone who contributed. A balcony stretches across the back of the double-high ceilinged room and ends in catwalks that connect to the upper part of the stage.

The stage is the center of attention. Also wood, it has the elements for any play: a door, an archway, a balcony, a ramp, winding stairs, short steps, wide flat areas, pillars someone could hide behind, an even dozen entrances including some that let the actors enter the audience. When you are here, the play is the whole world.

It took years to give this place its atmosphere. But this is a lasting legacy created by an unflagging spirit with a vision. The world is nothing but locations, but this, this is a place.

Behind my house is an Elementary school. It shares its name with the Post Office, a subdivision, a dance studio, and several bank branches. Names mean something; somewhere there must be a stream horses could cross, a waterfall, a pool.

But the world changes, and so do names--not always together. The Phillips 66 on the corner has fresh vegetables and biscuits with gravy. On the hill behind it, Shallowford Falls antiques is open only on weekends. The owner is a landlord with a pinestraw business on the side. His store manager passed away a few years ago.

Once he had stores on Peachtree Street and Sunset Boulevard, antiques coast to coast. He ran the General Store, once the center of the community, which has become the Phillips 66. He's a white-haired, smiling red-faced man, not cryptically old; as he spoke I saw the hand-built house where he lived, with the foot bridge across the stream to his barn. He raised horses, and he watched them running from his porch overlooking the falls. A beautiful dream.

After the buildings were condemned, they bulldozed the area and built an Elementary school. At first it was named for his family, but they are private people, so it is Shallowford Falls. From my house, I see no horses and hear no babbling brook; rather it is buses, PE teachers' whistles, and at night truant high schoolers. It is not what it was; but it is a place where children play and grow.

I didn't buy anything in the store, but I think I found something I liked.