notes from the kelp

August 8, 2011

For the birds

[IMAGE] gulls

…click to listen:

Blues veena to preen by.

Morning. Strong coffee at hand. A good counterpoint to the even stronger red wine the night before. Both beverages are helping me with the counterpoint I need to be composing shortly. I sit and inhale the kelpy/salty/invigorating/warming air, watching artfully contorted gulls as they preen and groom themselves for the new day.

Me? Maybe I won’t even get to the shower today, and just scramble around these rocks like a tomboy until my muses are pleased with the notes that fly around my head. Unpreened, ungroomed. The muses, the notes, and me.
But not these gulls!

[IMAGE] gull on roof

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4 Comments »

William Belote said,

August 10, 2011 @ 2:12 pm

So, when you are crawling around the rocks and water, taking in the overwhelm of environmental info, and thinking of composing, do you take notes, a small recorder, or is it a more subtle slow cooking stew that you are seasoning in your mind, waiting to taste when you are back in the studio?
Alex Shapiro said,

August 10, 2011 @ 2:48 pm

No recorder or notes. Just the endless subconscious loop of the piece I’m working on, spun by a demonic DJ whose goal is to torture me. I’d refer to the result not as a subtle stew, but rather, as something completely inedible and unappetizing that I would not foist on anyone else, yet must force myself to taste… and, improve upon!
William Belote said,

August 11, 2011 @ 10:34 am

Surely the Geneva Conventions could address this assault on humanity. Demonic DJ, phantoms of the past, ghosts, gods, or just your well furrowed brain matter. What a trip! Thank you for being a composer.
Glenn Buttkus said,

August 11, 2011 @ 11:52 am

Another taste of Chakra Suite is always welcome; thanks. Artists seem to get their inspiration in the damn-dest ways. You becoming true nature girl, roaming the kelp beds and beaches like a wraith, fresh faced, wearing your ball cap and old sneakers; makes for a wondrous image.
But all of it beats hell out of living in an urban concrete canyon, and roaming back alleys and garbage strewn parks, and pigeon crap statues, and panhandlers, and drug dealers, and somehow still searching for that oder, that image, that sound that will whelp your counterpoint. The Shapiro poetics follow:

Quest

Morning.
Strong coffee at hand.
A good counterpoint
to the even stronger red wine
the night before.

Both beverages are helping me
with the counterpoint I need
to be composing shortly.
I sit and inhale the
kelpy/salty/invigorating/warming air,
watching artfully contorted gulls
as they preen and groom themselves
for the new day.

Me? Maybe I won’t even
get to the shower today,
and just scramble around
these rocks like a tomboy
until my muses are pleased
with the notes that fly around my head.

Unpreened, ungroomed.
The muses, the notes, and me.
But not these gulls!

Alex Shapiro