December 1, 2007
False bay, real atmosphere
…listen
…about the musicWater crossing. And mud.
Above is what this corner of the world looked like yesterday afternoon (MID afternoon, I might stress, as it was just after 3pm and oh so impressively dark). The sun lowered itself gently over False Bay, an aptly named body of sea and muck that is always mysterious and gorgeous. At low tide, shallow, rakish water pulls far, far back to expose mud and creatures to the sky from which they hide. Here, the air was crisp and fresh, in contrast to other visits that attacked my nostrils with a sulpher-like smell so overwhelming as to drive me back inside my car. Such as this summer moment as seen from the same spot, in the fog:
Today the islands are having their first glimpse this season of white powder. I woke up like a little girl, announcing excitedly to Charles, “it’s snowing! it’s snowing!” and watched as everything became dusted and magical. I went outside in my flip flops and pajamas to feed the birds and reveled in the flakes brushing my skin. For a northern-born soul like me, it was exhilarating. We’ve had just a sprinkle of flurries so far on San Juan, but parts of neighboring Orcas Island are already laden under an inch or two.
I keep hearing the great James Taylor in my head: “Now the first of December… was covered with snow…”
Rockabye sweet baby Alex.
Glenn Buttkus said,
December 2, 2007 @ 11:00 am
The music connected to your message and your images had an interesting dichotomy to it. There was you, now the islander, surrounded by salt water, that wonderful magical “inland sea” that touches the Pacific Ocean, there at False Bay, staring out onto that body of water, full of yearning and wonder as most of us do listening to the waves lapping, smelling the kelp, the salt air, hearing the music of the gulls, and yet beyond your wondering, within you there is this incredibly centered peace, this maternal swirl of heart and soul that purrs as it peers. Yes I heard all that in your pinch of music.
So I guess for someone as accomplished as yourself, music becomes all art, all that we as a species strive for, and most often fall short of. Metaphysically there are many references to the fact that on most all other inhabited planets, in various dimensions, music is in the air, created by the diverse planes of existance, by the planets, by its inhabitants. That as we strive daily here, in lesson, some of you special ones hear that cosmic language, that “music of the spheres”, and you capture it, like wide eyed children grabbing at soap bubbles and the spray off large waves, and you process through your life’s experiences, through your soul and self, and then lovingly –you put it out there, you share it with the rest of us; those of us with the tin ears and clumsy fingers and ragged voices. We thank you for this sharing. We develop a taste for it. We soon learn that we can live full and fulfilled lives without it.
You put we all into your space as you rushed outside in your flip flops, feeding the birds, little girl’s mouth agape as you lick at the fat snowflakes begin to fall. Growing up in the Northwest, winter has never been my friend. We mainlanders, and flatlanders living on the shoulders of the Cascades, have to deal with snow like it was an advesary, a freezing bully that will ice the hills and onramps and concrete stairs, that will create stress and larger heating bills. When I see snow falling I only get a moment to appreciate the softness and the beauty, and then I want it to melt, to go away. It belongs in the mountains, where we can go and visit it when we have a mind to, not under my feet, not under my tires. How great it is to see snowflakes through your eyes, unthreatened, unflinching, arms open, heart open, doing your dance with the falling whiteness. I envy you your artist’s appreciation, your girlish glee, your haven. Thanks again for sharing.
Glenn
Glenn Buttkus said,
December 2, 2007 @ 11:13 am
Per usual I type too fast, and make errors. At the end of paragraph 2, the last sentence should read, “We soon learn that we can not live full and fulfilled lives without it”. Gosh, is my face red.
Looking on some maps I begin to get a better picture of your nest there on San Juan Island. False Bay looks like one of the bigger inlets on the SW side of the island. You are part of the San Juan Archipelago, all of the islands within Puget Sound, and up into the cluster where you are, a rifle shot from Canada. I read where there are 450 islands in all. My God, so many tiny ones, little hideaways, little well kept secrets. Your San Juans have 11 islands, and WA State ferries stop at 4 of them. I guess smaller private ferries go to Lummi, Cypress, Blakely, Stuart, Decatur, and Guemes.
Do you go in the spring to your west side of your island to watch the Orcha frolic? I read where San Juan Island has a perimeter of 74 miles, and a population of 5,214 residents with 2,150 more living in Friday Harbor. That population must double or triple during the tourist invasion in the summer. Just living out here in Sumner, and having to deal with the two week of the Puyallup Fair is a burden in terms of the tourists and traffic. I can only imagine how it must be for you.
Glenn
Alex Shapiro said,
December 2, 2007 @ 1:13 pm
Thank you for such beautiful posts, Glenn!
And anyone reading knew you what you meant in that paragraph, no worries.
I think that for a lot of artists, there is no separation or compartmentalization of our daily experiences and the resulting art we make. This is certainly true for you writers as you share your observations in a written language. You think, you see, you write. I’ve got an internal radio going on in my head just about constantly. Much of the time it’s my own music, either already composed or in the process of being, and sometimes it’s other people’s music. And at times it’s something stupid and ridiculous that gets stuck in there, over and over, as happens to a lot of people via commercials, etc.
There’s underscore, always. Many layers of it. Right now it’s windy and the trees are making waves of upper midrange whoooosh-es, and I hear the fridge motor humming, lower, in the kitchen and the random high pitch crackle of the fire in the wood stove. I hear my hard drive do that occasional grind/chew noise and I can vaguely hear the light bulb buzzing very subtly next to me. Oh, and now in the far distance, a small plane. Then the ferry horn, warning of imminent departure. Each one of these concrete sounds has a distinct pitch. If I were to notate them I’d get a sonic soup that could be made into something listenable with the wisdom of knowing how to manipulate registration (as in, adjusting the ranges of where those pitches fall, so that they aren’t all on top of each other in a muddy mess).
Hmm. Next time I’m stuck with no ideas, I should try this! I could call the piece “Sounds Like Home” or something corny. Ha ha!
I’ve seen Orcas on the west side, and also on the water south of San Juan Island, just south of Lopez. A fabulous and impressive sight! There’s a post from this summer with some great pix from my friend and tour guide Nan Simpson:
http://www.alexshapiro.org/blog/?p=205
Things do get busy here in the summer, but no so much that they’re overwhelming. Having lived for so many years in a similar environment– Malibu’s Paradise Cove, with its on-the-sand restaurant– I guess I’m used to it. And in each case, for three months of tourist madness, in exchange you get nine months of solitude in a gorgeous place that people from all over the world pay lots of money to visit. I figured out long ago how cool it is to cut out the middle man, so to speak, and live in a resort year ’round! It’s like using the “good” china every day 🙂
Glenn Buttkus said,
December 3, 2007 @ 6:40 am
Wow, your explication of that radio playing in your head really helps me to see, to partially understand you, and your art, your music. Unlike some musicians, you are no stranger to wordsmithing as well. Do you write poetry or lyrics? If so, has some of it found its way to your web site? I talked to a young jazz musician one time while living in California. He loved to improvise and could do it ad infinitum; kind of like Wally Shoup I guess. I asked him, “What do you see in your mind as you play, notes, stanzas, bars, what?” He smiled at me and, “What I see, man, is pictures, imagery. I don’t think about the music. Music is just the language I use to describe the imagery.”
Interesting that even in your solitute, your hideaway, there is never silence. Sitting there at the keyboard hearing the wind, and the trees bending to its sway and whoosh, your appliances, the crackle of your wood stove, the distant cry and bleat of the ferry horn, like those train whistles that sound far off and lonely, the mysterious grinding noise our computers make, as gigs mate with gigabites I guess, and that small plane soaring overhead, and by now the rain, the incessant drip; added to by your olfactory senses, the smell of your wet cat, the wood burning in the stove, the pitch in the wood stacked up next to it, the startch in your curtains, the bacon from breakfast, the fish for lunch, that clean smell of new socks, added to by your visual cortex, the sweat bubbles on the inside of your windows, the shine off the chrome fixtures, or the brass ones, your cat’s eyes as it watches you, loves you, is in feline orbit around you, those trees outside that are evergreen, except for those who aren’t, just stark sticks poking into a gray sky, and the sand dollar necklace you made last summer, hanging on the gate, and the bright red wooden knobs on the top of your cedar fence. No wonder you write music. It must burst from you like the steam off a tea kettle, filling the air with your personal mist.
Orca come down into the South Sound too, but I have not seen them. I see them on the 6 o’clock news. What grand creatures they are. It is always shocking to see footage on the Discovery Channel where they are slaughtering seals, in full killer whale attack mode. Yes, I suppose after living in Malibu, San Juan Island can never be too crowded. I love your simile of using the good china for every day.
When I was a kid, sitting on the bluff in West Seattle, peering out to Blake Island, I used to dream of having a cabin there, or on Vashon, so that I could “write”. Life has not provided me with that opportunity, so I have to live vicariously through you, see island living with your eyes, and through your music.
Glenn
Alex Shapiro said,
December 3, 2007 @ 10:46 am
Ah… wordsmithing… yes. I wouldn’t be bold enough to call myself a wordsmith, but I am incorrigibly loquacious and have spent plenty of time procrastinating by typing sentences rather than musical phrases.
Proof of my intrepid time-wasting abilities resides on this page linked below, offering a menu of short essays, published articles, and radio show MP3s (oh yeah: in addition to writing, I love to talk. No one has succeeded in shutting me up yet, much to the chagrin of some, I’m sure!).
http://www.alexshapiro.org/ASEssaysMenu.html
Glenn Buttkus said,
December 4, 2007 @ 5:59 am
Loquacious, yes, I too have been called that, and sometimes garrulous, and often verbose. One friend dubbed me the “Viscount of Verbosity”, which he probably meant as a slam, but I took it as a left-handed compliment. I like to think of myself as a poet, who enjoys the freedom of pure hearted prose, who cannot look at a sunset or rise without wanting to share it. For me it is always that knawing need to share. I really love old Webster sometimes. “Poet: One, as a creative artist, of great imagination and expressive capabilities, and special sensitivity to the medium.” That sounds familiar as hell to me.
I took your advice and clicked on the Alex Shapiro: Composer link, and there it is –all your words and ideas. I will take months to read them, to digest them, to comprehend them. I will dip into them like a child with a pocketful of chocolate kisses, extracting one or two as I need them and want them. It seems to be a separate link from NOTES FROM THE KELP, so I put it on my favorites too, on the shelf, on hand, easy to click on.
You did not answer my inquiry about whether or not you write poetry, or poetic lyrics. Somehow you give me the feeling that you do, have done, need to do. If so then be brave and post some for we, the hungry and unseen, the gaggles and herds and pods of us that slog through our mundane lives waiting for an interesting turn of phrase, composed line, new word to look up, poetic image. That way besides putting excerpts of your fabulous music to photos, you could do it to poetry, like a latter day Leonard Cohen, like Charlie Parker composing musical interlude for Sherman Alexie’s poetry.
Glenn
Alex Shapiro said,
December 5, 2007 @ 7:16 pm
Glenn, you tempt.
Alas, there is only one published poem to my credit.
And yes, when I find the right photo to accompany it, I will post it.
I already have the piece to go with it, because the poem was written to accompany the music (often it’s the other way around; this was an unusual circumstance).
Don’t waste too much of your time reading my essays and drivel. Just because I have the nerve to post all these things does not imply that they are any good!