notes from the kelp

…listen
…about the music

Busy busy busy.

Well, it’s off to the big city again for this country bumpkin.There are a slew of contemporary music events in Seattle this weekend and an equally impressive slew of living, breathing composers and musicians taking part in them, many of whom I enjoy seeing, hearing and reading (ah, the newfound blog life. How did we all ever bond before the internet?).

The 8:05 a.m. boat will get me the most scenic part of the way. I’ll put my car in the ferry line by 7:20. Which is about 30 minutes later than when I go to bed most nights. This is how you know my level of commitment: a 12 hour internal clock switch in the name of music. Living music, specifically. I adore Mahler and Brahms and Beethoven, but they wouldn’t get me to make this trip. My far lesser known peers do.
The thrill of the unknown.
The tribal pull of like-minded spirits.
The after-concert hangs that are just too much fun.

And now you know why I don’t suffer from jet lag. I do this sort of thing all too regularly.

I’d nap on the ferry, but as you see in the pix scrolled down this page, it’s too beautiful to sleep through.

Love,
Sleepless in Seattle

…listen
…about the music

A waltz for a pinniped.

One of my most enjoyable errands is a trip to Eric and Brenda’s fish market. An open houseboat structure that rests on a floating dock halfway down the main harbor walkway, it’s where you’ll find the best and freshest gilled and shelled offerings on the island.
Popeye knows this. And it’s where you’ll find her, too.

She figured out quite a long time ago that this was a good deal. Show up, act adorable, let people take your photo, and get some entrails in return for the effort. Oh, and being blind doesn’t seem to hurt business, either. We’re all compassionate suckers. She had a pup last year, and I’m hoping to catch a glimpse soon.

Harbor seals are usually somewhat social and well adapted to life amidst humans and bilge discharges, but Popeye is everyone’s pet. You don’t have to wait long for her to come right over and surface between the dock and the neighboring ketch (artistic photo, eh?). And she doesn’t have to wait long to get what she wants.

But I do: the market is closed for a few weeks while its owners take a winter vacation somewhere very south of here. So I wait. So does Popeye. Except that she’s far better at catching her own fresh fish than I am!

…listen
…about the music

Early morning waters.

On Monday I ventured off-island as it’s called here, and went over to the mainland for a mundane dentist appointment in Bellingham. The ferry ride takes just short of two hours to reach Anacortes, with stops at other islands along the way, and the crossing is followed by a 40 minute drive east and then north. Throw in the mandatory ferry line wait time at both ends of the day, and it’s about a seven hour round trip. Normally, my first comment would be “good incentive to floss more.” However as you can see from my photos, the commute is nothing short of magical. Rather than being a deterrent, it’s something to look forward to.

On the occasions when the boat traveling from Friday Harbor to Anacortes originates just over the border in British Columbia, all passengers must clear U.S. Customs. As a U.S. citizen leaving the U.S. and arriving in the U.S., the first time I had to do this felt quite bizarre, and I immediately understood why locals call leaving the San Juans, “going to America.” It’s sometimes a little bit like no-man’s land here: not quite Canada, despite sharing their archipelago, and still not feeling entirely attached to the United States, despite our passports, license plates, voter registrations and love of Netflix subscriptions.

In contrast to this geography of independence, since moving here I’ve met more true American patriots and activists than I had in a long time in Los Angeles. An unusually large percentage of our small full-time population (hovering somewhere around 6,000 on this island) deeply care about the planet, about this country, and about their neighbors, and best of all, they get involved. The amount of philanthropic and community supporting activities in Friday Harbor is heartwarming, and someone without a busy career can make quite a busy one just from local participation. There must be a hundred organizations and groups one could join, serving every concern imaginable except, from what I’ve seen, the desperate need for a good Indian restaurant (someone, please help! I need my fix).

San Juan County, like the majority of Washington State, is Democratic (although many Democrats here also label themselves in part anywhere from Libertarian to Socialist to Progressive), and the last Democratic Caucus had a turnout of over 500 people. Even more are expected at the upcoming Caucus on February 9. This is an astounding percentage, considering that not everyone on this island is a Democrat, or of voting age. Voter turnout is equally impressive; I’m told it’s about the highest in the whole state. Small island, big voice! Proportionately, at least.

Do more intimate environments such as this one naturally attract people who care enough to get involved? Is the relative lack of anonymity a trigger for speaking out and trying to effect change? Does being detached from the mainland give islanders a sharper perch perspective? Will fish tikka and palak paneer every make it to Friday Harbor? Next ferry ride, these questions will give me something to chew on.

…listen
…about the music

Still reflecting.

The scene here an hour ago at sunset.
My brain and spirit are infused with the positive sonic chaos of a new piece nearing the double bar (another single malt, puhleeze?). How good to be able to sit quietly at this place and collect… no, herd, actually… my thoughts.
The new year begins. Again.

…listen
…about the music

Music for mythical sea goats.

Given my astrological sign, I thought this pic I took of very young goats and their mom at the San Juan County Fair last August was appropriate for today. Although, many say that the constellation– one of the dimmer ones up there– is actually a sea goat. Having neither underwater camera gear, nor faith that sea goats actually exist, I’m opting for their gill-less equivalents. I’m guessing that I could put all these cuties in the water and they’d do their best for the photo shoot, but they wouldn’t appreciate it very much. The water right now hovers at around 50 degrees. So land goats it is, much to their relief.

I didn’t realize female goats had horns, but hey, I was raised in a farm animal-free environment and am still playing catch-up all these years later. And there’s an increasing number of all these years. Today is the demarcation and declaration that my body has completed yet another full orbit around the sun. But the view this January looks a lot different than last, due to my latitudinal shift.

I suspect there’s been an attitudinal shift, as well. I especially noticed this when I was in New York for the conference last week. Yes, I ran around and did a lot of things. Busy busy busy. Fun fun fun. But it was a somewhat shorter, less frenzied list of things than in years past. At first I feared that maybe I’d lost my edge; maybe my endless energy was finally waning a bit. There were even more activities that I could have jammed into any already full day and evening. But when I mentioned this observation to my very dear friend Alvin as I forewent a concert and calmly packed up my exhibit boxes on Sunday, he smiled at me and said, “Editing. It’s just editing.”

And he was right.

There’s something very wonderful that occurs as ones brain gets a little dizzier with each solar rotation. We learn what’s important and what’s less so at any given moment, and yes, we finally learn to edit.

I look forward to becoming an old goat, and one who is as good an editor as she is a spewer of things that need editing.

Today’s audio clip in my continuing pixelsonic presentation is performed by another good friend, clarinetist Gerry Errante, whose orbiting sea goat also aligned itself on this very same day of the month. The farm was busy nursing musicians that day!

I’m most comfortable as seen above, peering through driftwood on a brisk day, red nose and clear eyes gazing slightly past the camera to the exquisite coastline of the Canadian islands directly in front of me:

But I have just returned from that chamber music conference in Manhattan, where I spent several days standing proudly by my offerings (51 scores, 16 CDs, 5 rubber duckies, 4 shells from my beach, 2 listening stations, 1 rubber snake).

…listen
…about the music

Onward and upward.

I had a terrific time. Saw oodles of dear friends and colleagues, did a really enjoyable interview with the completely delightful John Clare for his WITF-FM radio show, Composing Thoughts, and drummed up lots and lots of business from the helm of my exhibit table at the Westin Times Square. In my line of work, there tends to be a thin line between the business and the social, so the whole shebang is a ton of fun. But this former Manhattanite is exceedingly happy to be home on another island on what seems like, after 16 hours of travel, the other side of the world. In so many ways!

…listen
…about the music

And another rolls toward us.

In with the new.
Yes.
Happy 2008.

Today is also worthy of personal celebration, as it’s the second anniversary of the particular alignment of pixels that you are reading at this very moment. I started my algae-laden blog January 1, 2006, and have been having a great time sharing the beauty of my surroundings– first in Malibu and now on San Juan Island– with anyone interested in clicking. And, in listening. I’m not sure whether to call it photosonic, or pixelsonic, but it’s my version of scoring music to my own photos and it keeps me entertained. Maybe you, too!

For Auld Lang Syne, use the time machine on the right and visit some of the earlier posts. Occasionally I do, and it’s as though everything I felt and smelled and heard when I took the snapshot surrounds me, once again. Past, meet present. Wait– it’s already the future. Which just became the past. And so it goes. We ride this wave as long as we’re able, and have as good a time as we can!

Peace to all. I’m off to New York City for a week, to exhibit my humble wares at the national Chamber Music America conference. Should you be there, be sure to stop by and say hello. Meanwhile, I may not be blogging this week. Stay tuned for more deer, foxes, mushrooms and island life when I return. Maybe this year I’ll even include… gasp!… buildings and people!

…listen
…about the music

Slipping, away.

Cycles of loss can be very beautiful. Secrets are revealed. Details previously obscured suddenly show us a fresh view of something we thought we knew well. These trees down the road from my house boast a level of magnificent intricacy I couldn’t have seen a few months ago. Winter, and what it takes with it, can be enlightening.

And it can be harsh and painful. And inexplicable and unfair. As solstice began last week, one of my very close friends died. Dan Morris couldn’t have been more than 40, and those four decades had spent themselves creating a brilliant person with immense talent and a huge heart. If only they had created better kidneys for him, while they were at it. A phenomenal musician with an otherworldly sensitivity, he was not only a percussionist and a composer, but a visual artist. His love for birds, action figures, his wife Marie, and sushi knew few bounds. And he was the most generous, wry witted friend one could ever hope for.

We take the artifacts of our daily lives for granted and sometimes barely notice the items that fill our spaces over time. As Dan lay in a coma 1200 miles south of me, my eyes kept stubbing themselves on small things that have lived in my studio over the years. The teal ceramic Turkish dumbek he gave me and taught me so patiently to play. The pastel he drew of one of his seven parrots. His Tranzport remote that allows me to record live in another room while single-handing my sequencer. The myriad of tiny action figure muses he gifted me with to inspire fearless creativity. The stack of Fripp and Eno CDs we both loved that I kept meaning to return to him.

The magnificent intricacy of my friend was constantly unfolding, season after season. In his permanent absence, I’ll continue to see and to discover. And to smile. I’m convinced that a person’s legacy is in the memories he leaves with the survivors who loved him.

One of Dan’s last, amazing recordings graces my new CD. You can hear a small excerpt of him joyously playing a slew of different drums from around the world on the first track, Slipping, above. I know that he would be far more pleased to have his remembrance on my little blog accompanied by this silly piece than with some serious elegy.

Winter, and what it takes with it. The cycle of loss is unavoidable. It’s up to me to find the beauty in it, somewhere.

…listen
…about the music

Re:pair, for this pair.

Isn’t this what everyone finds in their bathtub?
These are self-cleaning kitties.
With some sunlight streaming in through the adjacent picture window, the downstairs tub is a fine place to take cover when too many people are traipsing in and out of the house and the humans who claim to own you (ha! what a joke) want to shield you from the chaos. Truth be told, these cats never need shielding; they love people no matter what sort of large power tools they might be using. That puts them one step ahead in the evolutionary chain from their mother, the sonically intolerant composer. But since Smudge and Moses could either be lunch or at least part of the weightlifting program for a bald eagle or owl, when the front door needs to be kept open this is one of several safe refuges around.

If I had a photo, and yes, I promise sometime I will, I would have posted an even more entertaining pic of Moses (dressed in black) at my feet, underneath the upstairs shower. As in, IN the shower. With me. Yes, while the water is pouring down. Loving it (hey, who wouldn’t? Oh, wait, this isn’t that sort of blog…). Moses always tries to be as close to the water when I’m bathing as possible. In past houses this usually required sitting on the edge of the tub and craning his neck until the spray rained down on his clueless head. But here he’s found Nirvana: an over-sized walk-in, stretch your legs kinda shower that has plenty of room for a litter of seafaring cats. Of course, the only one I know is Moses.

I will try to remember to bring my camera upstairs with me. Stop giggling and don’t get your hopes up: you’ll see ALL of Moses, and… glean an idea of my shoe size.

…listen
…about the music

Unabashedly.

If I had the time (because I do have the interest), I could spend hours cataloging the many unique mushrooms I come across on the modest acreage of which I have the honor of stewardship. Each is a piece of public art, erected very suddenly while no one was looking. And just as quickly, little museum thieves whisk them away. I walk across the same piece of property every day and, like the ocean, it is never the same two afternoons in a row.

Lots of these fungal flowers, if not mingling in little coffee klatches of a handful, are loners, standing upright with an admirable defiance and too-brief beauty. This one, reaching five inches toward the sky, would be picked for the mushroom basketball Olympics if they had one (and maybe they do… who knows what goes on in mushroom-land when we’re not paying attention). The tinge of purple and the delicate upturn of petals is not what I usually see with the rest of the fun guys who wear big hats.

I’ve been a bit of a mushroom myself this week, holing up like a hermit and preferring the dark (easy to do here since the sun sets at 4:15, shortly after I’ve finished my morning coffee). I managed to bribe my muses with enough red wine and dark chocolate over the past few weeks and they have finally returned to play with me. This is a good thing, since I have two commissions that could not be more different from each other in every conceivable way– style, instrumentation, client– due almost at the same time. And that time is coming up shortly.

Be kind to your muses and they will be kind to you.
And talk to your mushrooms, and sometimes they will talk back. Maybe even sing.
Inspiration comes from everywhere. I steal it like a mushroom thief.

…listen
…about the music

As the title implies.

Passion searches
hungry
for its partner
through air that moves
and breathes

into your ear
warm
slowly first
then quicker gasps
it finds you

reflecting light
and sound
with lips pressed
firm
against cool metal

It sings to you
it moans
caressing
eager to seduce
all that lives between the air
and you

barely touching
grazing
neck hair
shiver
accept
this shiny kiss.

I am easily goaded, and a New Faithful Kelpisto, writer Glenn Buttkus, asked for some of my poetry to round out the musings, music, and images here at Algae Central. I have no other poem to offer but this one; my sole foray toward concise expression. Those who know me will tell you I am many things and concise is not one of them.

The photo was snapped on Thanksgiving Day. Appropriate, I think.

A few years ago I was asked to send a flutist a solo piece that had been composed to prose. I thought this was a slightly odd request. I mean, how many composers have that kind of thing at the ready, just laying around their studio? But what I lacked in words I did have in music. Who better to remedy this imbalance than the composer herself, especially when the piece is titled Shiny Kiss and the program notes state, “The title refers to stage lights bouncing and reflecting off of a metal flute, and the sensuous way a flutist’s mouth embraces the embouchure. This simple hollow tube is the vehicle for such passionate expression, and just watching expert lips coaxing music from it can be a nearly voyeuristic experience.”

Well, I’m not concise, but at least I’m not… dull.

…listen
…about the music

Water 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.