July 14, 2009
Waiting for high tide
![[IMAGE] tidepool](/blog/blogpix/lookingdown.jpg)
…about the musicSwell and swirl.
I can stare endlessly into the water, imagining all the life that thrives where most above cannot see. Like the creatures who cling to these rocks, I’m waiting for my own version of high tide. Having just finished a solo piano work this week for one of my favorite pianists, I’m about to embark on a journey for ten instruments– a double quintet of strings and woodwinds that will premiere this fall in Chicago by this very hip ensemble. I’m nearly done with a sizable article that addresses writer’s block (it would be rather ironic if I were to the deadline on that one), I have a few pithy words to add to other blogs I like, and am never lacking in additional music projects, like finishing up my long-promised electroacoustic CD, Alextronica. Each of these projects and tasks is poised at the edge of the shore, waiting to set out to sea on an adventure. I’m always looking for the next tidal surge.
Glenn Buttkus said,
July 15, 2009 @ 7:50 am
The White Horse @ :45 was a tasty morsel. We, your faithful kephistos, have not heard strains from that in over a year. Barely got the ship launched in my mind’s eye and it was over. So I played it three times, and managed to launch that fairy tale craft. Only trouble was it flipped over immediately. The wheelhouse and cabin seem to be an add on since it became a land lubber. It really does look like something out of Tolkien or Harry Potter tales. Had you never seen it before? What a treasure. Thanks for sharing.
Gee, only working on three sets of compositions and finishing one article? The words “obsessive workhorse” mean anything to you? If the lords of Friday Harbor could just figure out how to harness your energy, they could get off the power grid.
Glenn
Mike Wills said,
July 15, 2009 @ 11:14 am
Here’s a poem by W.S. Merwin that seems suitable….
Departure’s Girlfriend
Loneliness leapt in the mirrors, but all week
I kept them covered like cages. Then I thought
Of a better thing.
And though it was late night in the city
There I was on my way
To my boat, feeling good to be going, hugging
This big wreath with the words like real
Silver: Bon Voyage.
The night
Was mine but everyone’s, like a birthday.
Its fur touched my face in passing. I was going
Down to my boat, my boat,
To see if off, and glad at the thought.
Some leaves of the wreath were holding my hands
And the rest waved good-bye as I walked, as though
They were still alive.
And all went well till I came to the wharf, and no one.
I say no one, but I mean
There was this young man, maybe
Out of the merchant marine,
In some uniform, and I knew who he was; just the same
When he said to me where do you think you’re going,
I was happy to tell him.
But he said to me, it isn’t your boat,
You don’t have one. I said, it’s mine, I can prove it:
Look at this wreath I’m carrying to it,
Bon Voyage. He said, this is the stone wharf, lady,
You don’t own anything here.
And as I
Was turning away, the injustice of it
Lit up the buildings, and there I was
In the other and hated city
Where I was born, where nothing is moored, where
The lights crawl over the stone like flies, spelling now,
Now, and the same fat chances roll
Their many eyes; and I step once more
Through a hoop of tears and walk on, holding this
Buoy of flowers in front of my beauty,
Wishing myself the good voyage.
Alex Shapiro said,
July 17, 2009 @ 3:56 am
Glenn, you make me laugh! And Mike– that’s a beautiful, poignant poem. Thank you for sharing it.