notes from the kelp

…click to listen:

…about the music

Beauty that turned my world upside down.

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There are lots of nifty benefits that result from being an active composer-kelpista blogger. One of them is the serendipity of making new friends from all over the planet. I get emails from every continent. Well, almost: not a single soul on Antarctica has written me. Yet. C’mon, you glacial-based scientists! You’re freezing your butts off down there and stuck inside with nothing but your computers and chocolate bars! What else do you have to do other than read my blog?

I will report back when I hear from someone living on Antarctica. Promise.

Other times, my readers are right in my back yard. As in, living on a neighboring island directly across the moat surrounding mine. Not long ago, I got a Facebook message from a fellow San Juan Islands-er (not to be confused with a San Juan Islander, who lives on San Juan Island in addition to living in the San Juan Islands. Oh boy, this can get confusing to visitors). Phil Green, the longtime caretaker of Yellow Island, extended an invitation to me and two other local bloggers he loves reading, Shann Weston and Monika Wieland, for a private visit to the enchanted floating nature preserve he stewards: a quiet atoll of almost-but-not-quite 11 acres that can only be reached by a small boat, or Diana Nyad. Frankly, all visits to this botanical oasis are private, as there are rarely more than six humans afoot on the isle at any one time. The thing is so small, it would probably sink under the weight of several average Americans. To be hosted by Yellow’s sole resident is quite special, indeed. In return for fetching and, presumably, returning us to and from Friday Harbor, Phil suggested that the three of us, each photo-shooting maniacs with a unique voice, blog about our afternoon.

And so, at midday on a Tuesday, we played hooky like a giddy group of junior high kids and met on the dock. The three of us, plus two of our partners who are also avid nature types, hopped onto Phil’s groovy new skiff, and off we went.

Not too long after revving the engine, we had arrived.
To nowhere. And everywhere.
Paradise.

Yes, one could hear the theme from Gilligan’s Island wafting through the air. As I said, presumably, we’d return at some point. Uh, maybe.

The day began a little on the gray side, but as soon as we walked up the first hill, sun and color surrounded us:

It’s the height of wildflower season up here, and Yellow is renowned for its display. With neither actors nor grazing mammals to chew the scenery, the native plant life is a multi-sensory encyclopedic explosion of vast beauty.

Well, there were no actors or animals, but I did stumble upon two homo sapiens crouched low in the fields. They appeared potentially dangerous if disturbed, so I was careful to keep my distance.

It goes without saying that photos cannot possibly do justice to the overwhelming experience of standing alone in an isolated meadow with millions of flowers, bees, birds, and a pollen count that would lay any allergy-prone creature flat. Every sense is heightened and thrilled; atop one of many knolls, dwarfed by Pacific Madrones and staring out to other islands across a sea of endless buttercups and camus, I had become Alice in Wonderland, and even without the LSD, everything looked reaaaallllly psychedelic.

Looking a little closer, every flower popped like one of those black light posters from the late 60’s:

If it weren’t for the little path…

…you could easily lose yourself…

…just like Alice.

Composers are incapable of stopping the composing gerbils that run the musical wheels spinning endlessly in our skulls, and those goofy little rodents hit pay dirt upon landing in this fantastic buzzing, chirping, splashing, lapping, branch-rustling sonic environment. The timbres and rhythms and frequencies and motifs all served to really get the gerbils going. No telling what the heck is going to spew from me musically next, but it might make someone sneeze.

The bees even donned spiffy attire for their concert performance:

As gorgeous as the flowers, are the Madrones that love the island’s sunshine. Many refer to them by their Latin name, Arbutus; I call them Arbeautiful, because they truly are. Abundant in this part of the Northwest, they’re among the most sensual trees I’ve ever seen, with trunks that look like dancers:

Even better, sometimes like nude dancers:

Oooh, you just want to reach out and stroke the hard, muscular smoothness…

…which alternates with varying degrees of sharp, peeling bark (maybe some sort of kinky pleasure/pain thing for nature’s amusement, I dunno):

Tucked into all of this magic is the very, very old driftwood cabin where Phil lives.

It’s weathered decades of storms and is ready for more. Just like Phil.

A few years ago, friends and I kayaked onto this same beach at a far higher tide, when sand, not kelp, was the substrate. This day featured one of the year’s absolute lowest tides, and the moon’s proximity pulled back layers of water that normally protect all these squishy secrets. A lone dinghy teased me with a reminder of possible escape. But who would want to?

While I most certainly didn’t want to leave, in this photo, I look as though I needed directions:

“Let’s see… take the crosstown bus at 86th to the IRT#1 going south, get off at 66th, Lincoln Center is across the street and there’s a Starbucks on Columbus… oh, wait, wrong map…”

There are more than a few moments during the year when I’m keenly aware of the two extremes of my life, from the ultra-urban to the über-rural. Standing in this precious wilderness, and realizing that it only took me 10 minutes in a tiny boat to get here from where I live, was definitely one of those times.

To the south-ish, a passing reminder of civilization was the postcard-perfect view of a ferry in the distance.

And to the north-ish, at least one other human shared my view of Canada’s southern Gulf islands from their sailboat:

And at the end of the day, six humans felt exceedingly peaceful, joyous and fortunate to call this wonder-island archipelago home.
Thanks, Phil. What a perfect Tuesday afternoon.

Your faithful scribe, Monika, Shann, and Phil. Do we look totally blissed out, or what?

…click to listen:

…about the music

One bird’s effort pursuing the gull of his dreams.

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Ok, I’ve gone all out. THIS is a great gift. I know she’s gonna love it!

Hey, beautiful: this is for YOU.

Uh, beautiful? Hello?

Hmmph. Man, I look like an idiot.

All right then: I’ll boldly take the initiative, and bring her proof of my love. And, my bank account. This stupid thing cost a fortune…

Yes! I got her to look! Success! She notices me! Ahem: I HEREBY PRESENT YOU WITH…

…THIS PROOF… OF… Wait! Where’re you going??

Whoa! Beautiful! Hold on! Come back! It’s your color and everything! [Geez, this thing is heavy. Next time I’m just getting flowers like the cheap gulls. None of this root-ball-o’-sincerity crap…].

Oh, bea-u-ti-fuuullll..?! Come heeeeeere?! I got this for youuuu… Huh? What? You like it? Really? Oh, wow… oooh… ohhh… mmmmm… you DO like it! Ahhhh….

(intentionally blurry for a PG-rated blog post)

And this is all I’m left with. She had her way with me. She took everything. Geez, I’m so, um, gullible… But the promise of love is worth it… sigh… well, at least I think it is?… maybe?… wait, how much did that thing cost…?

…click to listen:

…about the music

An old lullaby from this chick’s 80’s synth era, for this new chick.

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Above: a heartening sign of spring. There are actually two fuzz-balls in that nest, but only one kept poking its head up to see what the world looked like this morning. I don’t blame the other one. I often refuse to poke my head up to see what the world, or even my coffeemaker, look like this early in the day.

It’s worth noting that the “nest” is about one ton’s worth of everything you see below the chick’s head, resting 80 feet or more up the incredibly strong branches of a Douglas fir. Eagles’ nests should be included in the seven wonders of the world.

When I made plans a few days ago to take a nature walk with friends on Sunday at the crack of dawn*, I failed to remember that I’d be at a late-running, wine-infused dinner party with other friends the night before [*Okay, not the crack of dawn, but 9am, which feels very much like the crack of dawn to me. Especially when I blithely, dumbly smile and blurt out, “Oh! Come over for coffee around 8:15.”]. What was I thinking??

I don’t know what I was thinking. But I’m awfully glad that I wasn’t thinking, “now that’s a silly idea; you’re not a morning person, and you’ll want to sleep in.” No, thank goodness I wasn’t thinking that. Actually, thank goodness I just wasn’t thinking. Otherwise, I would have missed out on the mama and chickie above, seen on this morning’s deeply peaceful walk through the wildflower-infused meadows and prairie land to which I gaze from my desk every day. American Camp is among my favorite places on planet Earth. And stunningly, I can see my house from it. I am beyond grateful to live where I do.

So, in the wee hours that most normal people refer to as “morning” and which I refer to as “the middle of the friggin’ night,” my pals and I, accompanied by very kind Ranger Doug of the National Park Service, filled our lungs with the unspeakably wonderful scent-combo of overcast sea air and newly blooming plants, and ambled through the windless, almost-warm almost-mist. To the east is Griffin Bay:

With buttercups and green green spring green grasses in the foreground.

Mount Finlayson looms between the two “sides” of San Juan Island on its narrow southern edge. At 392 feet, it’s far from a mighty “mountain,” except to the perception of my pathetic thigh muscles each time I summit, which during the remarkably steep incline of the final 50 yards, deem it not only Mighty but Supreme and Omnipotent.
No, we did not climb it this particular morning.
I guess I was thinking, after all. Just a little.

Here’s the view from the top, looking west at Vancouver Island, in a photo taken last summer when my muscles were more awake:

And here it is in the other direction, from which you can see the atolls strewn off the south of Lopez Island:

That was last summer. But it looked remarkably similar this morning. Not much changes here.

Meanwhile a fox hung out on a far more climb-friendly rock, and took in the view to the sea, and to the rabbits…

As did an immature bald eagle….

As its parent went grocery shopping…

And a pair of geese reflected on what the day might bring, while the sea reflected their beauty.

All the while, mama and chick calmly observed.

I don’t know what they’re thinking. But I’m so glad I wasn’t thinking. So, so glad.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

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Yes, gulls have tongues.
And they laugh.
At me.

Composers are fragile creatures. We toil and stress over every note, every measure, every nuance of each phrasing mark.
This visage, in front of me as I strive for utter, unobtainable-but-yet-neurotically-necessary perfection,
is not especially helpful.

He doesn’t care.
He just laughs.
At me.
And waits.

It’s easy to be paranoid when one of these guys just won’t take no for an answer.
Everywhere I turn my gaze, there he is.
Laughing at me.

Looking at me.

Staring at me.

Occasionally trying to be coy, as if I won’t notice he’s there. But in his mind I know he’s laughing.

And, expecting table service.

The nerve.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Something funny on the black and whites, for these funny black and whites.

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It’s an exciting time of year around here: Orca Watch 2012.
Well, for me, at least.
This post of mine from last summer explains why. We’re quickly approaching the season when the resident pods of orca whales– J, K and L (thanks to the nice folks at the Whale Museum, you can read about this weird naming process here), return to this part of the shoreline to get their fill of the salmon running yards from my toes (I wish the fish realized they could save me a trip down to the dock by simply flinging themselves right onto my grill).

Since their traditional departure from the San Juans in mid October, I’ve missed these creatures. I call them my “floating pandas,” and despite their bad rap as Killer Whales, they really are quite adorable. Sometimes they swim by so close to the rocks and kelp beds, that I could just about reach out and pet them.
Don’t worry, I won’t.
Besides, I’m quite certain they’re terrified of me. Really. They call our species Killer Humans, because we murder and eat cows and sheep and pigs and all sorts of mammals just as cute as sea lions, without a second’s thought or remorse.
Heck, as far as the orcas know, they could be next.

Tiding me over throughout the six months of provisional orca deprivation (P.O.D.) has been the most kitsch item in my house, (ok, next to Big Mouth Billy the Singing Bass, and oh, that fabulous Santa hat with the antlers, tree decorations, and light-up red nose):

I can’t believe I just posted this pic.

A pair of salt and pepper shakers.
Not just any pair.
A pair that I found last year right here in little Friday Harbor, that gives me so much joy I might need to start watching my sodium intake.

So when I am missing this:

Thanks to Jeanne Hyde for this shot from her beautiful blog,
Whale of a ‘Purpose’!

I can always have this!:

Quick! Someone save me from myself before I put a little swaying hula girl on my dashboard to tide me over until my next trip to Maui. Please…

…click to listen:

…about the music

The view from here.

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I wonder if this goose, clearly having a deeply pensive, introspective moment, is thinking about filing taxes on time.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Out from the fog.

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No, not Ted Turner and his classic movie channel.
Joseph Mallord William Turner. The sublime British watercolorist and painter.

A lone gull and I stood early this morning, entranced.

Well, I guess I was the one who was entranced. The gull was just looking for breakfast.

…click to listen:

…about the music

I think he’s blushing.

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“Ralph! Get back here. It’s getting dark and it’s time to start dinner.”

“Ralph? I said, get back here. I’m getting hungry.”

“Ralph!! GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!! I’m STARVING!!”

“Hey Alice, baby, relax! Norton and I are just watching the fight. Good game! Steller Sea Lion: 3, Cephalopod: zilch. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way home.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Yummmmm!”

“Okay, see ya, Norton. I guess I shouldn’t keep Alice waiting. Time to go shopping– I better bring something back…”

“Uh… Uh-oh. What’s that above me?”

“Hey! He stole my dinner! That ball was in play! No fair! Call the Ref! Foul!”

“Leftover octopus, AGAIN? Gee Ralph, I thought we were having Dungeness tonight.”

“Look at those silly eagles. Alice always forgets that ever since they started doing the Atkins thing, they’re on a low-crab diet.”

…click to listen:

…about the music

Somewhere, under the rainbow bow.

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Island life.
The myriad ways to be the go…
…and to be on the come back!

(and the come back is the best part).

The plane, from the ferry. When transport worlds [don’t] collide.

If I’m not in a rush.

The ferry, from the plane, both of us coming into Friday Harbor. And did you notice? That’s Mt. Baker, an active glacial volcano, in the background. I may be on the move a lot, but I sure hope all of that mountain stays right where it is.

…click to listen:

…about the music

What the eyes hear, and what the ears see.

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Above, you can enjoy part of the February view from my desk one twilight this past week. If the photo were, oh, eight or nine times as wide, it would offer a truer sense of the daily, all-encompassing vista that inspires the little black dots on my odd-looking lined pages.

But computer screens cannot mimic real life,
and my amateur camera skills can only reinforce that truth.

Maybe that’s part of why I love to compose: for all my delight in writing words and clicking photos, the most authentic way I can communicate the depths of what I perceive is through the least literal means: music. A sonic truth that, at its best, is as much of an all-encompassing vista as that which meets my eyes.
Only a heck of a lot louder, usually.

It’s heartbreakingly difficult to leave here sometimes.
Most times.
And over the past few years, there have been many times.
I take flight.

I return.

I repeat.

I’m offered lots of opportunities to share what I do, in myriad ways. I accomplish a great deal of my work via the internet, whether it’s:

publishing and selling my scores,
participating in national meetings,
giving radio interviews via phone and email,
pdf-ing contracts and articles,
teaching my online private students,
directing musicians via MP3s and videos, for CDs and performances,
attending rehearsals of my music, live, via the magic of Skype,
being in contact with a nearly daunting number of people via email,
…and via Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Grammy365, and other networks.

The web is the fantastic tool that allows me to do all of the above and more, while pajama-clad in this gorgeous remote setting. I’m the cute little spider resting on her sticky threads. When I feel them vibrate, I pounce on the promising opportunity without needing to leave home.

When I stopped composing, this gal took over while I slept.

Nonetheless, despite my hermetic preference to spend my days in ill-matched old clothes, gazing out the window while my mind does its [sometimes very mindless] thing, there will never be a digitized replacement for a personalized interaction.

At least, I really hope not.
We’re all mammals, sniffing the pheromone-laced air to get a sense of each other. Even if you could blast those pheromones through a computer screen, you couldn’t provide the exterior context in which they’re experienced.
At least, I really hope not.

Thus, I often find myself poking around in my closet for some better matching clothes, and hopping on assorted modes of transport, to transport my world to someone else’s.

One of the laws of physics I’ve learned: The more I do, the more that’s generated to be done.

And if it can’t be done online, the happy rewards of all this “doing” usually take place in large cities or on university campuses, teeming with actual, non-digitized humans. This requires matching clothes. Or at the very least, socks.

Over the span of forty five years, I lived [what I really hope is a little less than the first half of] my life in two enormous cities, New York and Los Angeles. Their infrastructures and rhythms are defined by the needs of people. People whose clothes are often nicely coordinated.

By contrast, San Juan Island is mostly defined by the needs and rhythms of wildlife. Its infrastructure is almost entirely that which nature built long before people with matching socks ever showed up to try to ruin appreciate it all. The five years I’ve lived here so far have been nothing short of exquisite; I do unusually well in these surroundings. As gregarious as I am when I’m around other folks for short periods, I actually prefer the isolation of a floating rock that’s nearly dangling off the grid. Not to mention preferring the comfort of wearing my worn jeans, dusty boots, and quite possibly unmatched socks.

For ten months of the year, I fling myself around on planes as seldom as once a month and as often as twice a week. As my music career has grown, so has the number of frequent flyer miles on my monthly airline statement. It’s been at least three years since I’ve spent more than 19 days in a row at home. Yes, I actually counted (thus adding to the already remarkably long list of Odd Things Composers Do When They Do Not Feel Like Composing). The giddy exception to all this flitting and flying is summertime, when the equation is reversed and it’s everyone else who visits me, and I get to stay put. Because driving friends around in circles while we ooh and ahh at geolo-gee-whiz and Bald e-gads and orca-smic sightings in the water is just so much damn fun.

As I head out the door to catch yet another ferry or puddle jumper plane, I usually quiz myself, “now, exactly why am I leaving again?”. I then answer my question (this kind of solo conversation may be deemed the first warning sign of mental illness, but so be it), and I quickly remember the wonderful things I’m off to do in another place, with terrific people. It’s always been worthwhile to briefly pull myself from this paradise… as long as I know that it’s this paradise to which I get to return.

The Universe might be laughing. But while it politely turns its back to guffaw at me and my funny little bifurcated life, I do my best to create balance, and to love, smile, and ultimately, communicate.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Flight of plain, and fancy.

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Lemme tell you: no matter how many times a day I see a bald eagle, it stops me in my tracks. And my islander friends who’ve lived here far longer than I? They’ll admit the same thing. You’d think we’d all be jaded, since eagles are a very common sight in the San Juans. Oh, ho hum, just another Bald Eagle…
Nope.

If my desk could be physically attached to the double-paned, saltwater- and gull-poop splattered glass of my picture windows, it would be. Failing such nifty design, it rests exactly ten inches in front of that wall of windows. Which means that when these ginormous birds and their imposing, six foot wingspan fly right past me as I’m working, they’re gliding only a few feet from my nose. It also means that I keep my cameras– the wide lens and the 300 zoom– close at hand.

Every photo in this post was taken while I was seated at my desk.
I am one lucky composer chickie.
Most were shot last week, and a couple were first seen here.

These breathtaking fly-bys occur many times a day. Sometimes I see the birds on the hunt, swooping past me and out over the water, perchance to snag a [squiggling, writhing] mmmm… yum!… snack. Other times, I see the anthropomorphically touching sight of what appears to be the adult parents training their sizable offspring how to get the longest ride on a thermal, or navigate in a hefty set of gusts, or obnoxiously chase poor little gulls like a big bully (as a small, geeky kid who was harassed in grade school, I’m always rooting for the gulls). Bald eagles don’t start sporting their regal, All-American white headed, white tailed regalia until they’re about four years old. It’s been wonderful watching the youngsters grow up in front of me.

A teenager, lookin’ for trouble.

Spreading those wings. “Hey! Come home by your curfew, or else you’re grounded!”

Clunk.

And in another year or so, he’ll look like this.

And eventually, this!

As it turns out, I’m directly in the path of their shoreline shuttle service, as they soar from one rocky point to the next outcropping to the next cliff. And, back. Sometimes, two or three of them in a row. And occasionally, with lunch in tow: a fish, crab or gull who wasn’t expecting the day to play out quite this way when it got up in the morning.

Effective, and stylish in bright yellow– like a set of Sears Craftsman tools.

For all the eagle photos I’ve managed to accumulate, there are just as many that exist only in the solitude of my memory. Some of the most stunning moments are the ones that happen so quickly, there’s just no time or ability to grab a camera. I just stare gape, and take it all in on my personal Kodachrome.

Lift-off!

Two such moments come immediately to mind. This past summer, an adult eagle flew straight to the rock three short yards by my desk, with an equally adult salmon clutched in its talons. For the unin-fish-iated, salmon are remarkably large and heavy. I’m sure a raptor relief rest station here and there is helpful. I was pleased awed to be the roadside truck stop du jour. So thrilled, in fact, that as I watched in stunned Oh-My-Gawd muteness as the eagle landed smack in front of me, salmon and all, I had no presence of mind to grab my camera (though I was envious and tempted to try to steal the fish from the damn bird for my own dinner). In fact, had I moved, the eagle would have flown off even sooner than it did. Much like the Great Blue Herons, as large as they are and unflappable as you’d think they’d be, they’re keenly sensitive to movement around them, and have little patience for photo opps. But oh, what a sight.

And then there was the time when, early one morning as I sleepily padded over to my desk to check email, I happened to look up just as an adult bald eagle was flying right toward me. As you can see above, I’ve captured that a few times. But this time was different: dangling from his bright yellow talons was a three foot long, very pink… octopus tentacle. Just one of the eight; who knows where the rest of the unlucky creature lay. I may have written about this earlier on these blog pages. I swear, it looked like a mid-air refueling maneuver gone terribly, terribly wrong. And it was coming full speed directly toward me, veering off only a few yards before hitting the house and creating the Mother of All Splats (the reverse image of the suction cups glombing on to the glass with the eagle dangling from them is something that sped through my brain for a nanosecond). Needless to say, I had neither the time nor the presence of mind to make a move toward my camera, only inches away.

Some things are simply meant to be experienced without a lens in front of one’s face. Most things, in fact.

But I do love capturing the essence of these moments, in images embalmed in pixels so they can be preserved for others to enjoy. Ergo, this blog, of course.

Fly like an eagle.
And compose like a human being completely inspired by one soaring past her drop-jawed face.

A kelphisto komrade komposer named Paul Muller enjoyed these photos so much, that he took the time to set them to his very well-suited music in this compelling, soothing, transportive video. It’s a fun switch to have my photos underscored by someone else’s music, for a change. Thanks, Paul!