notes from the kelp

…click to listen:

…about the music

Unabashedly grateful.

Tweet

With a compact SUV full of evidence that I’ve spent the past hour and forty five minutes of my life running errands in town, I approach the steep, curvy, deeply-rutted-with-the-history-of-several-winters driveway that leads to the joy that is the modest home in which I live, immodestly placed at the sea’s damp edge. Each tire-threatening divot is like a fossil, telling a silent tale of the windswept force that has pushed against this hill for tens of thousands of years, and against this house for a little less time. Not a single tree grows here.

Receipts in my wallet from the grocery store, the post office, the dump (more politely referred to in these parts as “the transfer station”), the bank, the hardware store, the thrift shop, and the liquor store (you can get wine in the market, but hooch is only available– at full price– in the sole state-run store on the island), are a forensic breadcrumb trail tracking every move I’ve made. There are no receipts, however, for each of the random, enjoyable conversations with island friends, also out creating their own breadcrumb trails of errands. In fact, I’ve almost never left the house without running into at least one, if not six, people I know reasonably well. That statement is enough to make my urban readers cringe and celebrate the anonymity of city living. But having lived my entire life until four years ago in two of the nation’s largest metropolises, I treasure my new reality. Yup, there’s no hiding, in a tiny town. On bad hair days I wear a ball cap. And when I look like crap anyway, no one cares.

Whatever I happen to fill my days with professionally is immaterial to what is actually the most important determination if I’m worth talking to: whether I’m a nice person. Whether I make someone smile, laugh, or generally feel comfortable. Whether I’m kind. Way down the list, whether I bathe regularly [enter: ball cap]. And dangling at the very bottom of the list: what I do for a living. People here know that I travel frequently for my artsy work, and that even though they don’t see a lot of me, the island is my full-time home. When asked, and I reply that I’m a composer, without fail the immediate and somewhat astonished response is, “music?” (I have never ceased to be both amused and bewildered by this; is there another kind of composing out there of which I’m unaware?). If you were to say the words “contemporary music” or mention the name of a well known living composer, you’d be greeted with a blank stare (with the possible exception of John Williams, whose revered name would elicit a “DUH da DUH da DUH da…” “Jaws” quote).

And that’s okay. It’s very, very healthy for me (and frankly, for any of my colleagues) to be reminded that while what we do is excruciatingly important to us, it’s not considered by much of our society to be deeply vital to daily existence. I see it as a happy challenge to find ways to create an affinity between myself, my music-making, and my fellow humans, framing the musical part of my life with lots of other non-musical things that may be of even more interest to a broader scope of folks. This algae-laden blog, its musings and photos sharing my passion for my environment, is one example. Ever since I began pounding out these pixels in 2006 (gee!), pound for pound, there’s actually very little here about my musical pursuits. This might seem counter-intuitive, for a blogging composer. Just about every composer I know writes about composing. But I merely assume that if anyone is really curious, they’ll hop on over to my professional website for a look-see. Here in Kelpville, I let the music itself do the talking, by underscoring a photo in each post with an excerpt from my catalog, be it concert music, jazz, or even a pop tune demo with a questionable, if sincere, chick vocal track. I’m passionate about music, and about nature and my relationship to it. And if I were passionate about car races, or badminton tournaments, or polenta recipes, I’d share posts about those. The key to a happy web life is identical to that of a happy personal life: linking your passion, to someone else’s.

Ok, back to my little parable of the day having something to do with running errands. In this village, there’s no such thing as pulling an efficient, stealth, “surgical strike” in which seven places can be conquered in 35 minutes, with a zippy retreat home. No, that’s for big city life, where one glides in and out of parking spaces and storefronts anonymously, and where you risk being considered a social deviant by the stranger in line next to you if you strike up a chat. Here in floating Mayberry, we chat in the shop aisles and in the parking lots and in the grass fields between buildings. The little post office is a veritable coffee klatch. And it would be unthinkable to honk your horn at the two folks who have stopped their cars as they passed each other to have a short conversation side window-to-side window– right in the middle of the town’s main, two-lane street. If you’re in a rush, you are living in the wrong place.

As I pulled up to my steep driveway off the cul de sac of a paved road, I noticed a couple of parked cars and a handful of people standing on the hill a few yards away, taking in the stupendous view. It occurred to me that in addition to the many miles of sea and islands and mountain ranges they were enjoying, there were probably also some whales in the neighborhood. But with or without the big fellas, this is one of the most spectacular residential spots on the island. I waved as I slowly drove past (slowly is an understatement, since the loose dirt and rocks demand about 0.4 MPH).

My body bobbed with the rhythm of the ruts, and my eyes caught the unmistakable ink-black of two dorsal fins.

How many times have I stood somewhere amazing, looked over to a nearby home and thought to myself “wow, it must be incredible to actually live there! I wonder what lucky person lives in that house!”? At this moment, it hit me like a ton of bricks that I am That Lucky Person who actually lives in that house that stands all by itself by the sea and the whales. The visitors watched as my car toddled its way down the hill to the water; I felt almost as though I was trespassing. A keen sense of gratitude for my great fortune swept over me; even a little embarrassment.

Hopping out of the vehicle and loading my arms with as many bags as possible for my personal weight-training exercise program, since you’ll never see me in a gym [helpful note to my stalkers: you can save time by bypassing that place], I started to make my way among the chest-tall weeds, down the narrow grass goat path that leads to my front door (for a moment, one can hear the theme from Deliverance. But only for a moment). The sunny day had turned blustery, and the sea was getting grey and choppy. I looked up to scan the water, and sure enough at that instant, there came a small pod of orca whales, swimming fairly close to the kelp beds. I walked inside, put down my groceries, picked up my camera, and grabbed the shots you see here. Nothing spectacular about them in the least. Except for the fact that they were taken from the house that I get to live in. The one where my groceries are.

I will never get over the combination of a mundane act like bringing in toilet paper, and seeing killer whales.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Breach of contact.

Tweet

Ok, let’s begin with this important message from your sponsor: I’m not complaining. No sirree. I’m very fortunate to have this, uh, problem.

Now that we’ve got that established, here’s my commentary for the day: living in a glass house at the edge of the sea during tourist whale-watching season, it’s easy to begin to feel a bit like a zoo exhibit myself. Not that anyone’s bothering to look at me on the other side of my windows, as I steadily put notes in what I deem to be the correct order, or type words in what are only occasionally the correct order. No, the people who are standing on the decks of boats only yards offshore from this house, aiming their binoculars in my exact direction and, for even greater intimidation, often pointing and laughing as well, are actually not looking at me at all.

They are looking at what is between me, and them: a vibrant moment of fascinating sea life, or perhaps some compelling geology that I cannot see myself, because it lurks at the base of the outcropping directly beneath me. From time to time I remind myself of this and am thankful that I’m not more of a deranged paranoid schizophrenic than I already am. But the sense of being stared at directly by a boat-load of strangers with high powered lenses and zoom-enabled cameras, has definitely been enough to encourage me to throw on some clothes before getting to work (sorry, folks*). And, to make me want to call up Paris Hilton and snag some tips on how to handle the orcarazzi.

A nice couple, on their afternoon troll.

On a recent warm day, I was working with the doors wide open. At the precise moment in which I finished writing down a particularly lovely chord, I heard a sudden burst of oohs, ahhs, and gasps of delight. Yes! I had indeed done an utterly magnificent job with that chord, I must say; the tricky harmonic transition from what came before was stunningly masterful. Thank you, thank you… uh… er… Looking up, I saw the tourists, the boats, and… the acrobatic Orcas. I was crestfallen to realize that it wasn’t my stunningly masterful-and-brilliant lovely chord that elicited such an immediate and stirring reaction, after all. My ego is frail, y’know.

Whale watching boats in the far-ground, glow-in-the-dark aliens on the sill in the foreground. Natch.

Stand, point, aim, shoot. No, not at me…

The scene from my deck, shortly before the orcarazzi discovered they were eating at this restaurant.

A fin time for the whole family!

* On a note unrelated to anything about whales, but rather, having to do with above-mentioned nudity at work (and who wouldn’t love that topic?), I commented on this little moment of daily life a few years ago, back in a previous lifetime when my home, my muses, and I were in Malibu, CA.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Sly foxes.

Tweet

One of the many things that’s great about the south end of this island, is the short furry thieves neighbors who trespass across my property daily. They know that humans tend to surround themselves with food products, and if those food products are meant for cats, dogs, birds, or other creatures, that’s only considered even more of an invitation to crash the party. Not that there isn’t plenty of natural chow readily available here on the land.

A few mornings ago as I was making coffee, my eyes caught the jagged movement of a furry mass jerking a few inches into the air, several yards in front of the window above my sink. As I looked up I saw one of the charcoal-colored local foxes attempting to cope with something on the ground. I peered closer. The object on the ground was moving. And it was in a coil.
Oh, a snake. Probably a garter, judging from its modest size.
Next thing I knew, the kit was tentatively biting at the snake, trying to negotiate breakfast but confused by the thin, wriggly nature of the menu offering. Somewhat timidly, the fox poked and snapped and pawed at the poor reptile, until finally getting up the nerve to just dive right in for the full “Happy Meal.” My interest in coffee suddenly waned. I watched in fascination/pity/horror/rapt attention/ as the little fox ate the little snake.

I’m always in a conundrum at these moments. I really like snakes. I really like foxes. And the cycle of life really doesn’t give a rat’s ass (just to throw in two other animals).

A small black fox, enjoying a groovy view.

If you’re a cat person, foxes have that sleek, independent, graceful, wilier-than-thou soft-fur chi going on that’s irresistible. If you’re a dog person, the snout and the cunning, sniffing, trotting, scavenging, toothful-jawed nature of these creatures is something you can relate to.

I will now use my powers of hypnotism to cause you to bring me something from your fridge.

And if you’re a fox person, well, you’ve come to the right place. I promise better pix as time rolls by; this is just what’s been in front of me here this week (literally, taken point-‘n’-shoot guerrilla-style while seated at my desk). If you’re looking for actually beautiful, adorable, phabulously phetching photos of phoxes, my island naturalist friend Monika Wieland can phulfill your phox phix right here, and few things are as cute as this momma and offspring, in a pic taken just down the road from me by island photog Kevin Holmes.

In the meantime, here’s the fuzzy/underlit Shapiro desk series from a recent June evening at dusk:

Very likely siblings, play-fighting. Adorable.

Now, what other blog offers two fox kits AND a hummingbird??

If this fox gig doesn’t work out for them, they can head down to Hollywood and audition as coyotes.

So, just as I’m finishing up this post about the foxes, several Orca whales have started popping up in front of me, in the same spot right off the shore as they were enjoying yesterday. I’m so lucky: tourists pay a lot of money to go out on whale watching expeditions, and here I sit half-clad at my desk, taking in the show. The pods come by frequently in these waters since this is where the Chinook salmon they love also hang out. Maybe I’m part Orca, since I love salmon, too (something tells me these guys are not into sharing). If any of the video or photos I just took turn out acceptably, that’ll be my next wildlife offering from the happy coastal hamlet of Kelpville.

I’m ready for my close-up.

…click to listen:

…about the music

It’s about time.

Tweet

There are at least two events that occur in my life which regrettably put me into reverse mode, rather than the shark-like forward gear I usually prefer: doing taxes, and moving.

Taxes are an annual chore, and I may have blogged in this space before about my dislike for the process due to it catapulting me backwards 12 months and causing me to account (literally) for my sins and wayward ways like a girl in a confessional. Who wants to face that? Do I really want to see just how many orders my ruefully procrastinating self managed to accumulate from Amazon.com, when I could have been practicing those Mozart fingerings mentioned in my last post? Even when years go reasonably well, and thankfully, more do than don’t, I still loathe the need to look behind me (what, and learn from history? Naw…) when all I want to do is have some fun and keep chugging ahead (possibly with blinders on, which could explain some of those wayward ways).

Moving is a less frequent event, but when it occurs it means not only moving my personal life, but also my studio and office. In other words, it’s two, two, two moves in one! I’m doubling my exercise, if not my pleasure and fun.

Along with some backward glances, occasionally a freshly unpacked box comes with a discovery of something long ago forgotten; a small item, once of some use or value, that has rested in the same little drawer for a very long time, sitting quietly, never making a fuss, and thus, going unnoticed for years, its sole purpose now devoted to collecting dust and probably some cat hair. [A wistful aside: even kitties who are no longer with us live on in the presence of their intrepid hair, strands of which show up years later, defiantly clinging to something and eliciting a melancholy sigh that we who miss our furry companions know well. I melt when I occasionally come across one of Moses’s unmistakable black hairs]. Earlier today I was organizing a couple of very small storage drawers in my studio office that hold all sorts of hardware trinkets that would be instantly recognizable to anyone over 41 years old who’s had many years’ worth of music project studios. 1/4″-to-mini plugs. Groundbreakers. Male-to-female RCA Y connectors. Banana plugs. And yes, a small reel of splicing tape. Splicing tape?? It’s doubtful that anyone under 41 has ever seen such a relic.

For several years now, my studio has been entirely virtual, meaning that all sounds are generated not from stacks of synthesizers and outboard effects units (aka, “rack gear”), but by sophisticated software run on a powerful computer. The result is that what used to look like a friggin’ impressive room of light-emitting-diode-enhanced gizmos that only a superior expert in their field could possibly understand (and thus wow clients with), has now morphed into something akin to a tax advisor’s cubicle. So sad. In fact, if one avoids noticing my pianos, guitars and hand drums for a moment, the sole object in my digital music studio that looks even remotely musical is what’s known as the controller keyboard. It looks much like any 88-note keyboard, and Yamaha uses the same keys for this puppy as they do for their uprights. Yet when one plays it, it doesn’t make a sound. Rather unmusical… until you turn the power on and boot up a piece of software that will tell it what sound to trigger.

So today as I cleaned off one of these little 7-inch grey-and-clear plastic storage units I’ve had forever, the kind you get on sale at the local hardware store that most normal people use to hold nails and screws and not XLR adapters and MIDI couplers, I opened a drawer full of little black items that I’ve owned for 27 years, used for 22, not used for the last 5, and hadn’t noticed for all that time since. Suddenly, I consciously saw them.
Rack screws. And their accompanying washers.

Rack screws are short stubby deals that, as the name strongly hints at, attach the metal side wings of studio gear to the metal or wooden side rails of studio racks. Back in the day, before I went All Digital, I had a room full of rack gear. We all did, in my business. Looked mighty cool to our clients, too. Fingering these little utilitarian objects this afternoon, it struck me that I would never need them again, even though they used to be something I handled constantly, as new gear got brought into the studio and gleefully added to one of my racks. It was a melancholy moment, a little like the cat hair moment: a backward glance to things I spent a lot of time touching, playing with, and enjoying (no, not that. Get your mind out of the gutter). By the way, the best account I can recommend of a composer’s process of yanking away from the late 20th-analog-century fully into the 21st century’s digital age can be found in this blog post by a hilarious L.A. composer named Scooter.

Which leads me to the next sentimental, “geez, Alex, you sure are turning into an old fart” moment.

A couple of weeks ago, in search of an economical solution to a non-aesthetically urgent storage issue, I drove to the local consignment/thrift shop halfway up the island in the Middle of Truly Nowhere. Which is saying something, since this whole island could be described by many as the Middle of Truly Nowhere. So just use your imagination and imagine where Nowhere’s nowhere is, and what it might look and feel like.

All sorts of things readily abandoned by one person await a good home at the creative hand of the next, and I enjoy the voyeurism of poking around other people’s lives as represented by the stuff they used to like. As I walked along the outside of a building that held the promise of cheap bookcases, my eyes caught something familiar. Very familiar. Alongside a pile of old, nondescript forgotten sinks, metal file cabinets, and faux wood dressers, there it was: a modern, black, now dust-covered melamine anomaly in the midst of these homey items, and the woods surrounding us all.
My old rack.

Right after moving up here four years ago, I completed my studio’s final transition from physical gear to a room of virtual instruments, and at some point soon after setting things up, I gave away my last rack to someone on the island who probably played an instrument or had some semblance of a studio himself. I can’t recall for the life of me what nice person this must have been, since I was knee-deep in renovating a house and trying to stay sane and create music on a deadline amidst the pounding of two-by-fours and the learning curve of new software.

To everything there is a season, and this rack has had enough seasons that if it could talk, it would have some great stories, I’m sure. Man, am I relieved that it can’t talk. The tape I used circa 1992 to secure a reverb unit was still stuck to a shelf, and the extra holes I’d drilled in the wooden rails made me smile as I was reminded that I never did manage to get them entirely straight (good thing my day job is being a composer, and not a carpenter). As with the stray cat hair from the past, my memory and heart were pinged. This rack held a lot of my stuff that recorded a lot of my music.

And all that stuff was held in that enclosure with those screws I came across today. Just like the cat, the rack and the screws and their washers have all had their day, and it was a damned good one. I bet if you looked hard enough in the bottom corner, a cat hair or three would still be lurking.

I rarely post photos of inanimate objects here on this naturalist-wannabe blog, but these things were near and dear to me and my aging history, so they get a place of honor in Kelpville.

Stay tuned for wildlife, next post. Or just stay tuned.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Deck work.

Tweet

Like plenty of artist-types, I spent Memorial Day working over a hot laptop rather than over a hot grill, in the hope of taking some raw ideas for my next piece and cooking them appealingly enough to dare serve to others. I was in The Zone, composing directly into a notation program, and feeling like the Iron Chef of Music Studio Stadium. But in the midst of a flash of [dubious] inspiration, at precisely 3:42 p.m., the power went out in my area of the island, for no discernible reason at all.

My first reaction: oh, crap. ‘Cos truth be told, in addition to all that music stuff appearing on my screen, in between bouts of [dubious] inspiration I was also multitasking, and wasting time on the internet looking for one inane thing or another to better organize my closet. Surely, no one else ever wastes time surfing the net while they’re working, do they? Of couuuurssse not…

My second reaction four seconds after the first one: great! No more web distractions. I’m such a child; sometimes it takes an external parent to tell me how to behave. Father Orcas Power & Light Company had burst into my room, scolding me to do my homework. Thanks, Dad.

This warm, windless, hazy day deserved to be used. Without hesitation, I unplugged anything around me that needed protection from the eventual boomerang surge (that arrived about two and a half hours later), and systematically detached my laptop from:
the 24″ monitor,
the tiny terabyte backup hard drive,
the speaker/subwoofer cable,
and the two usb and firewire hubs that connect it to printers, scanner, hard drives, trackball, cameras, iPhone, and all other messengers of media.

Yes, my trusty little 11″ MacBook Air is a busy city. A much larger and über-powerful tower computer runs the music production side of things here at the headquarters of Shapiro Nutty Notes Worldwide, Ltd., but all other work can be slipped into my purse as I slip myself on and off of lots of airplanes, able to run my business as I run around. I love this.

So, to the great outdoors I go: a few feet to the other side of the glass, scaring off the chickadees as my human form moves toward the little tile table, on which I place:
the laptop
the mouse
the ear buds
the iPhone
the binoculars
the better camera with the zoom lens
(I am a composer Girl Scout: always prepared!)

Needing a mouse pad for the uneven surface, I grab the first thing atop the piano: Mozart Sonatas. Great as they are, I think I’m still recovering from the trauma of playing them with the correct fingering as a kid. Ardent indications from my piano teacher’s No. 1 pencil still fill the edition, echoing endless weekly lessons in which I often felt I was a disappointment to this patient, charming older gentleman, the late Marshall Kreisler. Admittedly, the undignified function of mouse pad was the most use these wonderful pieces have had in a while.

The hummingbirds buzz on the feeder behind me. A black fox saunters past, looking up, unimpressed. A few finches flit nearby but are too timid to land on the railing, which is laden with fresh seed every morning as my coffee brews. A seal snorts and glides by my feet. And moments later, a bald eagle soars right over my head (possibly sizing me up for an afternoon repast and figuring that while my little head is a cinch, the shoulders could be problematic). All that is missing are the whales, who are doing their whale-thing further up the island coast this day.

The notes flow. I’m not only in my zone, I’m in everyone’s zone– much to their dissatisfaction, but to my delight. This is a truly amazing way to work, to breathe, to be inspired, [dubiously or better], and to think. To hear the flutter of tiny wings moving the air, and to feel the puff of breeze from the flap of much larger ones: this is where the music comes from. To hear sea mammals before even seeing them, the sound of their breath traveling easily over the water: this is where the music comes from. And to nearly weep from the beauty of it all and my great fortune to live this life: this is where I’m hoping that eventually, if I am lucky, the music will come from.

I love it when the power goes out. Everything else, comes in.

We all work for birdseed.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Caaaaaahhhhhhhlmmmmm.

Tweet

Ahhhhhh. Over time, I’ve posted quite a number of sunsets here from my living space, so I thought I’d share a lovely one from a couple of days ago, taken with my iPhone as I sipped a little wine at a friend’s place about five minutes up the road.

This summer will, as always, be bringing more San Juan Island Certified kelp to these pages. And possibly, more sunrises rather than sunsets, as well. I’m off tomorrow on another 10-day jaunt to a couple of cities in this great music-loving nation of ours, and when I return, fire-orb orientation-related details will be forthcoming. Ahhhhhh…

Same glowing orb, framed by different, glowing trees.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Action adventure sushi.

Tweet

I had posted these [uh, fascinating!] pix on my Facebook page less than a month back; I shot them on the fly from my desk, where a camera is always at the ready for ew-inspiring moments like this one. Yup, another day at the office here at Shapiro Seafaring Notes Worldwide. Just a moment ago, an almost identical scene took place a few yards from where I type this, only instead of watching a harbor seal eat lunch, today’s drama was played out when another unfortunate local octopus landed in the jaws of an enormous Steller Sea Lion, easily more than twice the size of the mammal pictured here. Thrashing! Diving! Sudden resurfacing! Attack gulls shrieking with joy, scavenging what they can! Tentacles, suction cups and flippers akimbo! Water everywhere! Razor sharp sea mammal teeth! Ouch! It’s completely riveting to watch these life and death struggles, loud and messy. My desire to remain in the voyeuristic moment often overrides my urge to grab the camera. And usually overrides my ability to shoot clearly even if I have it. It’s all just too damn exciting. I’d make a terrible photo journalist.

New from Apple: The cephaloPod.

I’m stunned by the feeding frenzies that take place every day in front of me. Freelance musicians at an industry reception hors d’oeuvres table have nothing on this. I’ve seen large, whole, live orange Dungeness crabs haplessly carried through the air by a single tad-too-slow crustacean leg clamped in the beak of a lucky seagull, as both creatures in turn were closely chased by a multitude of frantic, ravenous sea birds and hawks.

I’ve watch countless Great Blue Herons, Kingfishers and cormorants standing in the tide pools, quickly ducking their heads and coming up time and time again with wriggling, eel-like gunnel fish whose slimy green curling smoothness still can’t elude their predator’s hunger. Gulls and eagles do their best to snatch anything they can the moment the diner’s guard is lowered. Ya snooze, ya lose.

And a most indelible moment just a few weeks ago: the sight of a bald eagle flying low and straight-on toward my desk, with a thick, pink, three-foot long octopus tentacle dangling down from its massive yellow talons, limply gliding through the air, looking something like a mid-air refueling effort gone terribly wrong. A flock of gulls screamed as they raced to snatch stretchy bites of this fly-through fast food offering, but the eagle out paced them. This time.

I have no photos of these sudden, extreme moments. You can understand why.

Can I get some hot sake to go with this?

One creature dies so that another may live. Yeah, it’s the natural order of things, and yet it’s still gut-wrenching to watch, as I root for both animals simultaneously, knowing that only one will survive. I rarely go to the movies.

The other day I was pushing my cart through the aisle of our market here in Friday Harbor, calmly selecting items of my liking off the shelves and blithely placing them into my basket. Somewhere between the crab legs and the Ben and Jerry’s, I stopped and watched other shoppers pass me, smiling at me, completely uninterested in the booty I’d hoarded for my meal. No threat. No competition. No need to desperately fling my entire body across the top of my metal cart to protect its treasured contents from the onslaught of other hungry, scavenging, violent humans, lest I go without eating that night. No one was going to try to steal my food. Imagine that. I had the luxury of sauntering through the market with other primal, needy humans, without fear of being attacked. What a contrast to the way most other creatures (and yes, some unfortunate humans) exist. I went home, unpacked my groceries, and marveled at the ease with which I could continue to live for another day.

Just who is eating whom?

It’s not all death, gore and struggle that I see, though. Two afternoons ago, on April 10th, I raised my head just as two adult bald eagles alighted in the tree to my right, its high, exposed limb bouncing from their combined weight. Moments later, the male hopped on top of the female, and I witnessed roughly seven seconds of excited, flapping hawk porn as the next generation of eaglets began. Magical. I’d like to think that it was something about my music that set the inspiring tone for these romantically-inclined love birds, but I was only emptying the garbage at the time. Sigh.

I have no photos of that sudden, wonderful moment. You can understand why.

Ok, I’m done playing my scales and now I’m hard of herring!

…click to listen:

…about the music

Rock the dock!

When I gaze up from my note alignment duties and stare out across the deck railing, I never know what will greet my eyes. Every day is different. In addition to all the wildlife I catalog both here and on my Facebook page, there are plenty of man-made objects that float by. Most of them are commonly known as boats. But today was a first: not just a boat, but a dock and a ramp, sauntering past me just as I rose my head to think about the next note to be aligned.

Yup, it’s a dock, for sure.

This sloop is missing a golden opportunity to throw out a line and come to shore. Sort of like a mid-air refueling maneuver.

Here they are, coming in for a landing, at the Lonesome Cove landing.

See that miniature guy, motioning at the end of the ramp? He’s probably saying, “Steady… straight back… don’t hit the damn poles… someone’s probably watching and it could be really embarrassing.”

Made it! Where’s the beer?

Voila. Instant ramp and dock. Hooray: summer must be near!

…click to listen:

…about the music

In motion. Sometimes not.

Although I travel almost constantly, I almost never make mention on these kelpy pages of transport and its inherent issues. As long as I get from Point A to Point B in one piece, I’m rather pleased. But it’s April 1st, and I’m compelled to file a report here about the entire day’s oddities of mobility or lack thereof. It began with the shortest distance I’ve ever traveled leaving from JFK: the flight early this morning that left at 7:30 a.m. from Gate 29, and arrived a record-setting three hours later at Gate 10. Yes, the Gate 10 at JFK. It was an un-flight, actually, since the wheels never left the ground.

This prize-worthy accomplishment in the art of going nowhere fast included a brief tour of the rainy/snowy taxiing tarmac and active runway as the pilot discovered, upon revving the engines full throttle as he was about to hurl us into the blue, that something about this big bird wouldn’t fly. This is the kind of information that’s useful to have at precisely the moment we had it, rather than, say, a few zippy seconds later when we’d have been staring down at Queens just long enough to realize that we were about to become one with the boardwalk at Coney Island.

So upon aborting takeoff, we scooted to the shoulder of the runway, and watched all the other healthy, grown-up planes pass us and lift gracefully into the sky. Our pilot tested out the engines in a stationary spot that guaranteed a less perilous outcome than any which might have included the descriptive term “sudden plunge,” and determined that indeed, it was necessary to head back to the gate and call in the mechanics for a look-see.

We headed back. We waited. The aero fix-it fellas showed up and did their thing. And we waited some more. A lot more, in fact. Finally, we were told that we’d need to change equipment. Further waiting was in store for us after we de-planed and finally re-planed.

But heck, I’m Mz. Mellow: as long as I’ve got my laptop and my iPhone, I’m a happy camper (and camping out is what this started to feel like). Also helpful is that since I’m in the air nearly as much as I am on the ground, I’ve racked up enough miles to launch the next mission to Mars and thus usually find myself upgraded and catapulted through the sky from the very front of the plane on most trips. And ya know what the biggest perk to this is (ok, after the free booze, which the peripatetic and sometimes tired Mz. Mellow deeply appreciates because it further morphs her into Mz. Ultra Mellow)? The electrical outlets that are thoughtfully placed next to each seat, offering the promise of endless work, once I tire of mindlessly playing gin rummy on my [always cheating] iPhone and watching HGTV house renovations on the little screen on the seat-back facing me.

Snuggled into my comfy window seat surrounded by my juiced up techy gizmos, a banana, a Reese’s peanut butter cup and a Bloody Mary (each decidedly less techy, with the latter threatening to juice me up as efficiently as my gear), I declined the offer to venture off the plane in search of a better place to kill time. I was deeply content in my bleary-eyed que sera sera-ness. But here’s the FAIL part: in-air internet WiFi only works above 10,000 feet. As in, “in-air.” So even though I was plugged in, I remained unplugged. I guess this was like camping, after all.

Eventually, the consolation prize replacement plane became air-bound, and actually made it across the country to Seattle by mid afternoon. Then additional commuter fun ensued. It was raining heavily in Seattle (like, gee, that’s never happened before). One of Seattle’s few weaknesses is its utterly frustrating dependence on an I-5 freeway corridor that becomes thoroughly clogged when more than, say, three cars are on the road. Especially when all three have careened into each other because the drivers were probably too busy playing gin rummy on their iPhones to watch in front of them. With no other north/south options, the traffic jams can be legendary. And this was one of those marvelously legendary days. Heavy rain, heavy traffic, and increasingly heavy hunger pangs were my accompaniment track. It had been 13 hours since I left my hotel room on the upper west side, and I was still many hours from my front porch on the upper west rock.

By my feet at the studio: a bridge to somewhere.

Three hours later, we made it to the ferry terminal in Anacortes, hoping to catch the 6pm boat to San Juan Island. Problem was, although I’d dutifully checked not one but both online iPhone ferry apps for updates, info and any pithy alerts, we were unaware that in fact there was no 6pm sailing today because, like the plane at JFK, the vessel had mechanical problems and was pulled from service. Was it something I said? Should I have applied more deodorant? Tried a different color lipstick? What was it about me today that caused enormous hunks of metal on both edges of the continent– aircraft, trucks, and car ferry– to freeze up and cease working? Apparently, I had heretofore been unaware of my super powers and now must learn to use them for good, not for evil. At the very least, my fellow travelers– clearly all victims of my proximity– will benefit.

So I now type this tale of travel tribulations sitting in a dinky little ferry depot with other islander diaspora who, like me, await the 8:25 p.m. sailing to paradise. I’ve inhaled a slightly stale and oddly soggy cellophane-mummified tuna sandwich, in lieu of the nice dinner I thought I’d enjoy at home. And oh-by-the-way adding-to-my-slight-crankiness, this place doesn’t sell wine or beer (I guess they don’t want anyone to drink and dive). Nonetheless, if this is the price I very occasionally pay to live in this paradise, I’m willing to ante up. In fact, I’m quite, quite lucky.

…click to listen:

…about the music

From deeper waters.

Ok, this is short since I’m still on the road.
But I couldn’t let the entire month of March go by without a single post!
I almost always offer something here in this space that comes directly from the space that means the most to me: the island. When I’m traveling– mostly in cities and college towns– I’m really happy to be with lots of terrific musicians, but I’m far from the wildlife and sea that incite so many of the musical gestures these players perform. During these times, I love my Facebook page for its immediacy, and for the random, sometimes irreverent way I post snippets from various parts of my life, be they professional, personal or anything in between. And there’s a lot of in between. But the blog seems like a sacrosanct place in which I can share the things that are the most significant to me on an even deeper level. This brightly colored visitor to my doorstep from last summer is one brilliant example.

Coming soon: tales from the road. I’ve spent many weeks in many places with many talented people, and have many, many smiles to show for it all. I look forward to describing the essence of those experiences here, in a way that will put them on a par with the other brilliant, meaningful parts of my life. That ochre sea star and I are fellow travelers, living in the moment with memories that cling to us like a garter belt, still resonating and present.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Music from home.

It’s been too long since I’ve posted, and it’s certainly time I got back on the blogwagon now that I’ve found my land legs again. It took a few days after we docked for them to finally wash up on the Atlantic seaboard, and then a few more days to wring them out and get ’em functional again. It’s hard to walk with soggy legs, and yep, after 12 days at sea, that’s actually what they felt like. My body had become so used to adjusting to the constant motion of the ship that on solid ground I continued to sway gently side to side, giving me the official look of the drunken madwoman people suspect I really am when no one’s looking.

The happy buzz of the cruise stayed with me even longer than those wiggly legs, and the glow of those unique, physically off-kilter music-making experiences with so many lovely people remains, always. Now I’ve traded the frigate birds that fascinated me in the Caribbean…

…for the bald eagles that compel me here in the San Juans…

…and the work pace the moment I opened the studio door has been non-stop.

Immediately upon returning, I was thrown into the gleeful chaos of juggling a heck of a lot of Things That Can’t Wait. We all have them, those Things That Can’t Wait, and they are often attached to Very Nice People Who Need Things Now. And those very nice people have paid good money for Those Things that they Need Now. Those of you curious for a snapshot of the professional side of my existence can click over to the bevy of all updated info for a short scroll down a long page.

I, being a respons-ible Type A type, always meet these demands with a Pavlovian response of… responsibility. As such, I sleep a lot less some weeks than many saner people. I begin ardent work around 11am, do all the things that require interfacing with live people via phone and Skype throughout the afternoon, and then get my best energy in the late evening. By 2am I’m in the thick of the most productive part of my day. Uh, night. I’ll often hit the hay around 6am and then I’m up again in the mid morning, eager to get back to what I’d left just hours earlier. Everyone has their own natural rhythms, and once discovered, they can be a great source of order in an otherwise free-wheeling existence. Obey thy natural rhythms whenever possible!

I’ve admitted before that in daylight hours, the constant activity surrounding me is quite a happy distraction. It’s amazing I get done all that I do, since it seems as though between every email response my hand is reaching for a camera. But when darkness finally returns, the world and my relationship to it turn inward.

At night, there are only two distinct things I can see out my window: an intermittent “please don’t bash into the rocks” beacon off the tip of Canada’s Saturna island, and an intermittent “we told you before, watch the friggin’ rocks” beacon off the tip of the U.S.’s Spieden island, winking at each other in a polyrhythmic secret handshake (that’s ‘cos they know where the dangerous rocks are and the boaters don’t). There’s often a pale glow in the sky above the beautiful city of Vancouver, hiding from view behind Spieden. And Sidney’s town lights can twinkle at me in the distance north of Victoria on a clear evening. The visual stimuli of my finned, winged, tentacled and pawed neighbors is no longer present, replaced some evenings only by the subtle sound of their bodies gliding through the water, or their voices skimming across its natural amplification. But people? Buildings? Cars? Nope. Not one. No planes in the sky, either.

I realize that for some folks, I’ve just described hell. How could anyone possibly enjoy being so alone? What kind of sociopathic nutcase would choose this isolation? Yup, you’re reading her blog. It’s insane enough that you can’t even drive off the damn island to get a little humanity fix– but heck, you can’t drive from the top of the island to the bottom anytime after, say, 9:43pm on a winter weeknight, and even pass another car on the road.

Looking out across the dark sea late at night, I love to imagine that the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and that I’ve just landed on some lunar-but-pleasantly-warm planet to call my own. Ah, yes! I admit it: I’m a megalomaniacal composer! [cue: sinister laugh]. Lemme tell ya, this ain’t a profession that lends itself to such delusions, so ok, it’s official: I’m especially strange.

My only sense of the surroundings comes from the faint outline of the moonlit islands. And when there is no moon, there is near-total, wonderfully disorienting darkness for many, many miles.
Heaven.
Stepping outside to the front of the house and staring into 30 uninhabited acres of trees and open meadow without a single house in sight?
Heaven Pro 2011, Version 3.5.

There’s something about the lack of human vibration where I am that plays an essential role in my sense of peace and calm amidst a busy schedule. Fair readers of this bloglet know I travel a great deal, and those travels virtually always involve Large Gatherings of Humans to Whom I Speak Many Words. My sanity (yes, I still have a little left, but supplies are limited so I have to act fast) is balanced by the artist retreat of this rock. I’ve created a happily bifurcated life between the highly public and the highly private. And in each case, I can remain highly connected to others via the web.

But despite the lack of humanity, there’s still a lot of vibration here that comes from elsewhere: the wildlife, the wind, the water… scroll backward through these pixelsonic pages and you’ll see hundreds of photos that are alllllll about vibration, none of it man-made. I’m never alone, that’s for sure, and I feel well protected. This week’s photos are a summation of my security detail, which included this comical pair of oyster-catchers:

No, I did not Photoshop the color of these beaks.

And this otterly adorable guy:

And ok, two man-made entries:

Could the U. S. Coast Guard look more poetic, with the Coast Range of Canada’s mainland in the distance, and a bunch of golden Steller sea lions hauled out on the point?

And here comes the Canadian Coast Guard!

Because I guess everyone needs someone with a little vibration to watch over the home turf!

…click to listen:

…about the music

Ice work if you can get it.

The cruise continues to go wonderfully, and I sense that both musicians and our audience are a little glum about leaving floating music camp tomorrow. As we gradually head back north up the wintery Atlantic, the temperature gradually heads south, yet passengers defiantly wear shorts and T-shirts hoping to stave off the inevitable for just a while longer.

What is inevitable is the somewhat rockier sea, as waves and wind reflect the month of the year. Things, and people, move and creak and bob and sway, and it’s not too hard to begin to lose one’s balance while walking down a hallway. Last night was another “formal night” in the dining room, and it was a fun spectator sport to watch some women, their center of gravity already challenged by a tad too much time at the buffet, attempt to saunter gracefully in 4 inch heels. If someone actually walked in a straight line, you knew he’d had too much too drink. When I emcee’d the evening’s chamber music concert, I found myself gripping a structural pillar on the stage with the focused glomb of a pole dancer.

Adding to this extra bouncy bonus was a friendly announcement over the ship’s PA informing passengers of a screening of a film about the Titanic showing in the ship’s theater. I’m guessing Celebrity’s programming director has a wicked sense of humor. As does the media director: when I arose this morning and flipped on the in-house TV to check our bearings, there before me blithely chatting away was a man giving a lecture on both the Titanic and that other ill-fated cruise ship, the Lusitania. But perhaps most hilariously twisted is the company’s art director, who has placed large, quite beautiful photographs of icebergs throughout the cafeteria (as seen here), as well as on the walls of some of the stairwells and hallways. Given that this ship also sails in northern Europe, I view this choice of decor to be a potential version of performance art.

This morning after an Archipelago rehearsal, I’ll get an invitation-only tour of the engine control room. Wow! Two days ago, I was excited to be given a tour of the bridge. Always good to see the redundant navigation and safety systems in place, and be reminded that there are actually people upstairs running this bobbing behemoth. This afternoon, the amazing Jimmy Lin performs the Barber Violin Concerto, and Larry Rachleff gives us an absolutely inspired Beethoven 7th. Tonight: Archipelago. Rehearsals of this tricky piece have gone really well and I’m excited to present it to the audience on this final concert of what has been an incredible journey across musical waters and new friendships. But on our way back to the snowy north, I’m on the lookout for icebergs!