notes from the kelp

…click to listen:

…about the music

Stealth.

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Tumbling out of the dinghy one day this summer and stepping foot on the little uninhabited island of Sucia, I was soon met by the above, um, native. He (yes, I think it’s a he) glared at me as I approached. Threatening. Massive, at twenty feet across.
“What sayeth thou who dare to pass here?” his gravelly voice boomed with disdain. I think the earth even shook a little bit.
Unfazed, I raised my camera.
And he turned to stone.
Ok, well, he was already stone.

But I was fascinated by this visage, and by the Rorschach-like effect on my perception. This sort of thing happens around here quite frequently: creatures appearing out of nowhere. Even before I start taking the psychedelic hallucinogens. Which clearly, I do not need. I am my own acid trip. Probably way too much of the time.

There are far more interesting and important musings I could share with you right now. Oh, yes yes yes. Life has not been dull recently, what with another jaunt this past week to Manhattan, a side trip up to Yale to give another very fun ASCAP Composer Career Workshop, a new piece, Kettle Brew, for timpani, percussion and prerecorded electronics that is dangerously close to being completed, and an entertaining, if ominous looking, hail-infused storm that sped across the Strait of San Juan What the Fuca quite suddenly this afternoon:

…which accompaned me as I caught up on everything on my desk, having survived everything in the above paragraph.

Yes, I could share other things with you. But instead, I am choosing this: the sight for a short while from one of my windows yesterday.

Pretty exciting, huh? Sure, you see the edge of my deck railing, some well-dried tall grasses courtesy of about 80 rainless days in a row, and then a really wonderful glob of igneous rock called “ribbon chert,” that upon closer inspection, truly appears as though lava is careening right toward the house. It looks like this:

What you probably do not see, at least on first or second glance, is the decent sized animal in the photo. Gazing out the window in search of some of the right notes (having done a superb job finding many of the wrong ones for that piece I’m dangerously close to finishing), neither did I.

Nice rock.

Until it moved.

Wait for it…

And moved again.

Meow?

Wait for it…

The ultimate, um, catouflage. If I can make my musical notes as gracefully elusive and perfectly blended as a soft cat can make itself against this hard rock, well, I’ll have achieved something magical. Stealth has never been so impressive, nor so cute.

…click to listen:

…about the music

A very grounded Wyoming prairie dog.

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I’ve achieved a “personal best” in my flying life; I can’t recall ever having to endure so many take offs and [phew] landings on so many planes through so many states within a ten hour period. In light of the Virgil Thomson/Gertrude Stein opera, “Four Saints in Three Acts,” I think I’m well positioned to compose a sequel titled, “Five Landings in Four States.” On four planes, no less. Because that’s the description of my travels home yesterday after a really marvelous week as composer-in-residence for University of Wyoming’s New Frontiers Music Festival, whose talented music department faculty and students made the entire, lengthy commute entirely joyful and worthwhile.

The people in Laramie are very, very wonderful. But the small town is in the grips of a geo-political battle, and suffers sadly from a bitter fight between the academicians at the university who announce their research findings on the altitude:

and those who staunchly insist that, in fact, Laramie is a mere 277 feet above sea level.

Where’s Vanna White when you need her? They don’t need a vowel, but they could stand to buy a “7.”

Since the latter are under the auspices of the U.S. government Federal Aviation Administration and are in charge of the airport that hosts this signage, I’m inclined to side with them on this divisive community issue. After all, these aviation experts are the ones who deal with altitude on a very regular basis. Surely, they must be right.

So on Friday, I awoke before dawn on the high plains of Laramie, Who/What/When/Where/Wyoming (elevation 277 feet). I then flew to Denver, Colorado (the “mile high city,” although now I’m wondering if they, too, have a delusional university faction that randomly adds 7,000 and claims that the place is 12,430 feet high). Then on to Salt Lake City, Utah, after a gate change from hell that rivaled any Olympic long distance race without offering a gold medal, which I surely deserved. Ok, maybe just the silver. Yes, this is how I stay in shape. And next, Seattle Washington, my final state for the day, not counting “blotto.”

Blotto or not, I will never tire of the thrill of flying past Mt. Rainier.

Thankfully, I was among the fortunate holy anointed ones upgraded to first class on the major legs of Denver and Salt Lake. As for the other two: the little planes from Laramie and to the San Juans wouldn’t be able to differentiate between business and economy class while keeping a straight face. The choices would be more like, First Class = inside the plane, and Coach/Economy = have fun riding on the wing and please don’t forget to hold on real tight.

Of course my aerodynamic fun did not stop in Seattle: I poured myself, and the intrepid 22″ that follows me everywhere like a devoted puppy (or whiny, stubborn toddler, depending), into a van that shuttles about 20 minutes north from SeaTac to Boeing Field. And soon I was putt-putting my way in a flying Tonka Toy to the San Juan Islands.

The view from starboard, passing Whidbey Island, with Mt. Baker in the distance.

Landing #4 of 5 was on Orcas Island, which is not the island on which my coffeemaker or plastic dino collection is located. Part of the fun of returning home is that I never know until the propeller starts spinning whether I’m going straight to Friday Harbor, or making a stop elsewhere first. But the flight over the archipelago is so damn gorgeous, I don’t mind the extra putt-putt miles at all.

The command center of Orcas’s airport, located walking distance from the center of its town, Eastsound, is comprised of a cute little house they earnestly call a terminal, and looks like the kind of place one would buy hay, fertilizer, and a few small tools to bring back to the farm. Or, like you’re pulling up at Aunt Emma’s to pick up some of her fresh made applesauce. Except that the plane pulls up much closer to the little house than you’d probably be able to pull up to Aunt Emma’s. And I think she has more security. The TSA has thankfully decided to disregard our little piece of quirky paradise, and thus a small bastion of aeronautical civility remains somewhere in the U.S. Besides, in a place with so few residents, there’d be something creepy about getting a pat down from your neighbor who lives just down the road.

Gotta love the airport hippie flower-child sign.

Houseplants, a little hanging box for the mail pickup, and a nice porch, offer a homey touch to greet you here. Two friendly blue doors next to each other are importantly labeled, “OFFICE” and “TERMINAL,” while a small sign to the right reads, “PILOT/Fresh food Eastside of Terminal.” Which would be about 47 inches to the other side of that door: hardly far enough to cause one to work up an appetite. Is this the corner I need to peer around, like hide-‘n-seek, in order to find a pilot to operate the little Tonka Toy? And is all that fresh food they keep there reserved just for the pilot, or might it be shared– or at least rationed? I have no idea where they keep the stale food, but it’s probably just as conveniently close by. If they’re like me, they’ve got a compost pile behind the house.

We enjoy all modes and colors of transport here.

Three of the seven passengers on this fully booked flight got off here. Then finally, it was up in the air again to reach my final destination, the fifth takeoff, fifth landing, and, what I feel deserves to be considered the fifth state of the day, San Juan Island.

Flying over Deer Harbor, into which I had sailed just the week before.

Coming in for a landing, in the bustling metropolis of Friday Harbor.

Awakening the next morning, I opened my eyes to a flock of starlings that were making their own touch-and-go landings and take-offs from my deck railing, without the involvement of the FAA or the TSA, much less the Audubon Society. I thought to myself, “these guys do this hundreds of times each day. Who am I to be such a wuss that a mere five times seems notable?”. I plopped my head back down on the pillow, closed my eyes, and thought about the inspiring week with my musical colleagues in Wyoming, that was totally worth all those newly collected boarding passes. The faculty made me feel exceptionally welcome, and the wonderful students made me feel like I offered something useful to them. But if only I could help Laramie with its serious elevation problem, and mend the painful strife in that charming town, well then, I’d really feel like I accomplished something meaningful! Sigh. A composer can only do so much.

The Strait of Juan de Fuca defined between the Olympics and my birdie deck-orations.

…click to listen:

…about the music

The sailor gal.

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My gradual adaptation from urban city kid to rural gritty adult has been, at least in my view, pretty effortless (those who have witnessed me rush to keep a smoking weed whacker from erupting into flames, or once heard me claim that carrots grew on trees, might beg to differ). I adore this island so much that it’s inconceivable to me how I could have been equally happy years earlier, as I maneuvered in my Porsche 928 (yup, and it was a beauty!) between dueling big rigs on the gazillion-lane-wide Santa Monica Freeway. Or, as I dashed in my stiletto heels across Broadway between dueling taxi drivers whose sole amusement is to watch pedestrians scramble for their lives. Yes, I prefer island existence, with nary a traffic light nor angry cabbie to impose on my daily bliss. Sure, we have a few cabbies here in Friday Harbor, but they’re verrrrry laid back.

The pattern of these summer days seems a near-perfect blend of workworkwork that compels,

Error message??? This is not the way I prefer to be compelled.

friendsfamilycolleagues who delight,

No, I don’t usually cage my pals. But just like this sunflower star and Dungeness crabs who feasted on the surf-‘n-turf offering of stinky salmon head and extremely old hamburger, they’re well fed.

sailing outings that relax,

On the way to Sucia Island, passing by Yellow Island.

walks that inspire,

Yes, those are my feet in those mud boots in that squishy kelp.

food from the garden that nourishes,

The vitamins alone are blinding.

food from the sea that provides,

Two salmon, caught by a [generous!] friend an hour earlier, right in front of the house.

and wine from wherever the bottle might come from (not from trees, this much I know).

My version of the healthy food pyramid.

I call it all near-perfect because if it were true-perfect, a day would be 37 hours long and I’d actually be able to get a heck of a lot more done. AND sleep. Amidst this idyllic setting (well, for me; I know plenty of folks who can’t comprehend living this far from a good deli), and desiring a life in which all these wonderful things– nature, people, work, navel-gazing– are organically integrated, it’s tough to find the time for everything I want to accomplish.
Hardly a unique problem. Heck, everybody’s busy.

And so, I don’t find time.
Nor do I try to artificially make it.
I just allow it to appear, by staying focused on the visualizations of what, and who, makes me happy.
Damn, that sounds obnoxiously hippie-Zen-woo-woo, doesn’t it?
But magically, when I turn around, having reluctantly given myself permission to not “get everything done,” I realize that despite this, plenty of things have managed to get done. Just not all at the exact same time.

I’m reminded of this, because earlier today I stumbled across a response I gave to an interview question about time management a while back, along the lines of:

“All these zippy computers appear to be multitasking to the nth degree, accomplishing numerous daunting tasks at once in response to our repeated, insistent clicks. But the truth is, computers are only doing one thing at a time: they give the illusion that they are multitasking because of how fast they can process each separate request. Well, composers should be the same way.

We’re faced with a long sticky-note list of many different tasks that seemingly all need to be accomplished simultaneously, and it can become maddening. Composing the new piece. Filling publishing orders. Correcting a typo in an older score. Fixing a software glitch. Updating the web presences. Booking the next gigs. Returning emails/phone calls/carrier pigeons. Etc. But if we take a moment to breathe in and breathe out, and then peer closely at all those important things tugging at our sleeve, we’ll usually discover that we can triage them, ranking each item according to when it actually does need to be done, as opposed to when our fearful, adrenaline-ridden amygdala lizard brain thinks it has to be done.”

To which I’ll now add, “Then put the fancy-schmancy triaged list to one side of the desk, and make sure that while you’re regularly glancing back to it, you’re also having a good time.”

Screw the lizard brain.

I never take any of these joys for granted, yet I was particularly struck by the mundane minutia of a morning last weekend. The first three, non-working-when-I-should’ve-been-working hours of that day summed everything up. In short:

Within two minutes of opening my groggy eyes I witnessed a Bald Eagle swoop down to the sea in front of me and grab a creature resting atop the bullwhip kelp (fish, crab or gull; gosh, who knows, it was a stunning blur), and fly off with it in its talons.

Having coffee 20 minutes later, a black fox sprawled by my feet on the deck. Geez, the wildlife around this place are as chilled out as the cabbies.

Here he is a day earlier. Um, ding dong, Avon calling?

An hour later, after dropping a pal off at the ferry on her way to Canada, I walked down the dock to the floating fish market, and offered a breakfast of some small anchovy-like creatures to Popeye, the best known harbor seal on the island:

Not being quite as big a fan of smelly little fish myself, I opted instead for a few pounds of wild salmon for the evening’s dinner party, and waddled back up the dock through a bobbing maze of boat masts. It was a sunny, poetic morning. But instead of spending the day sailing, I knew I really needed to get straight to work on one of the new pieces I needed to deliver soon. I got back in the car and headed home.

Nearly out of town (town being all of three blocks long), I spotted someone I knew on the roadside looking for a lift, so I picked him up and off we went to the opposite side of the island from where I live. Writing schedule be damned. As the dirt road narrowed and the darkening woods thickened, the theme song from Deliverance and news flashes from 1996 of the Unabomber flashed in my head. I drove to the remote acreage where my friend and his wife are building a straw bale house, and was rewarded with the full tour, which meant climbing atop hay bales to get to the second floor and managing to eventually jump back down with 100 years of knees still intact.

…and she was never heard from again…

Finally ready to start working, on the road back to my place I slowed to watch deer graze by a pond on one side while on the other, sheep and goats rambled in a field. Two girls traveled in the bike path next to me in far more eco-friendly, fuel-efficient vehicles than mine: their horses (I have no photo for this, since I was holding the reins of my steering wheel).

Walking up to my door, bag o’ fresh fish in my hand and lots of musical notes in my little head, I paused on the deck and watched as a killer whale and his beautiful spout-spray passed by. It was not yet 11:30am.

The afternoon was still ahead of me and I had plenty of music to compose, in the glow of an already-full day that reminded me of life’s graceful interconnectedness. I seek an existence in which I have/make/create/allow room for everything that matters. There will never be such a thing as enough time, but perhaps if I keep visualizing what I need, my inner clock will softly drape across a branch like a Salvador Dali conjuring, and tucked within the melted parts will lie every answer.

If Popeye can get rewards for managing her time so well, then so can I. I just hope mine aren’t quite as greasy.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Blue ribbon birdie.

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Remember my utter glee last year, as I released my inner cowgirl at the San Juan County Fair?

Well, once again (my fifth summer, now!), it was back, and so was she. I. Her. Well, whoever that dimpled chick with the humongous pile of french fries is…

How does she keep her girlish figure? With this carbo-loading extravaganza!

Yup, I did the fair three days in a row last week, toting various sets of off-island visitors along with me. Every one of them thought the whole thing was as adorable, fun, and downright hilarious as I do.

Lacking the nerve to belly up for the logrolling or beer drinking contests (were there any?), I did enter three county fair competitions: for nature photography, essay writing, and poetry. I humbly and proudly report that I received a first prize blue ribbon in each. Given the fact that I failed to bring home a Pulitzer, Oscar, Grammy, or MacArthur “Genius” award this particular year, much less win a $1 lotto scratch-off, these shiny regional recognitions made me smile. Plus, there’s something extremely rewarding about being given a nod by others for things that one loves doing, but does not do for a living.

I wonder what I’ll write about next year…

The photo, “Incoming,” (this post’s lead pic, and subtitled “Duck!! No, eagle”), had been awarded a prize earlier this summer in the Ernest Brooks marine life photography contest. The event was sponsored by the legendary Mr. Brooks, and the San Juan Islands Museum of Art, on whose wall the photo has been displayed all summer during their show of Brooks’s recent, truly stunning works. What an honor to be a tiny part of the exhibit!

At the museum: this photographer’s first-ever exhibit. Or, framed photo, for that matter! Thanks go to fellow islander Bob Stavers, for getting the bird off the computer and onto the paper.

Other personal county fair highlights (of the digestible kind) included a coconut/watermelon Sno Cone, and the “Hungarian” curly garlic and cheese fries as modeled three pix above (if you’re reading this and happen to be Hungarian, fill me in on this exotic health food tradition, since I missed out when I was in Budapest years ago).

And, of course, since you all know me so well, a trip or several here:

Apparently, this is what happens when you plant beer seeds.

After strolling through the cheery, colorful sprouting beds of beer, we opted for a stronger crop:

I am not going to explain what happened to all the tequila that was in this bottle.

Milling around the hot, dusty fairgrounds, locals run into lots of friends, which makes the whole thing a very social event. Truly, as I’ve said before on these pages, it’s really like living in a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. And visiting the various and, uh, diverse booths can be almost as entertaining.

For instance, since every woman knows that firemen and paramedics are an unusually handsome subset of our species, I couldn’t help but stop here for a little while:

Just look at that gorgeous cut-out face… he’s a little two-dimensional, but cute.

And although San Juan County happens to be overwhelmingly Democratic, fortunately the Republicans showed up, if only to remind the Democrats why they are not Republicans:

A sign to the left instructed, “shoot first and then ask questions.” Hmm. God bless America. Soon, I hope.

And then there are the weird, random [possibly heartbreaking?] booths like this:

Really? Is this a commentary on the specific needs of San Juan County?

Friday afternoon, I got one helluva perfect tattoo:

Long-brown-haired busty kelp mermaid meets orca. I mean, perfect.

As did my fellow San Juanian “Island Sis” Lorraine:

Her house includes eight dog paws, but her arm could only support one.

In true drunken sailor fashion, both our tats were preceded by very potent margaritas. And they were followed by a raucously giggle-infested ride: Lorraine had the brilliant post-cocktail idea to fling ourselves around in this slapped-together contraption:

Well prepared with tattoos and tequila, Thelma and Louise throw their collective weight around the county fair. Hang on to your hats!

Once aboard and airborne, this ride tested the laws of physics and gravity far more thoroughly than either of us had expected. I do not think we ever stopped shrieking, laughing, occasionally swearing (mostly Lorraine; I’m a @#$%# saint, of course), and wondering whether we were about to be unceremoniously face-planted in the beer garden when these randomly moving metal parts, assembled by underpaid men with beer on their toothless breath, suddenly disintegrated.

The two paratroopers, coming in for a landing, mouths still agape and thankful their chutes stayed opened, too.

Zooming in: Notice the death grip I maintained on my iPhone the entire time. And no, that was not our shoe on the ground. I think Lorraine was exclaiming something unpublishable.

Yes, there is incriminating video of this, in which, just like the poor little children on the ride with us, you, too, can experience the decibels of our ridiculous screams and guffaws.

And I’m delighted to share with you that while there was plenty of tilting and whirling, there was no hurling. Classy broads like us not only can hold onto our straw hats, but also our lunch, even when hitting Mach Two in a kiddie ride.

Lorraine and I have decided to get tattoos again next year; a new tradition. That is, if we haven’t ended up in a parlor with real ink sometime between now and then, after yet another debauched day of carbo-curly fries and tequila. Next time you run into me at Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall, dressed politely in my skirt and heels, ask me to roll up my sleeve, just to check.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Nothing fishy about this film cue.

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This delicious moon was served up to us a few nights ago.

Meanwhile, when I walked out to the deck with my morning coffee recently, I was given a fine suggestion for what kind of breakfast omelet I might create:

Into every life, a little crab must fall.

This immediately reminded me of last year’s culinary offering. Maybe I should open a seafood restaurant.

The commercial fishing season has begun here, and what is normally a quiet, isolated view:

from the Cascades…

…to the Olympics.

…suddenly becomes the flotilla equivalent of the San Diego Freeway in rush hour:

One large purse seiner, The Emancipator (not exactly the Abe Lincoln of fish), anchors right next to my house for a few days.

People who live in glass houses should consider putting clothes on.

It’s endless amusement for me and any friends who happen to be here, watching the smaller boats sidle up and toss their catch, one hapless salmon after another, over to the larger boat.

Look closely and you can see the flying fish.

I swear, it’s as though Pike Place Fish Market has come to my doorstep.
Now, if only I could get these fishermen to turn in my direction and fling one of these salmon onto my deck with their best pitching arm!

A huge flock of gulls is waiting for table service.

As is a fox, who sits on my deck, licks his chops, and hopes something fabulous might fall from the sky, since that seems to be what happens around here.

And he keeps waiting, right there under the table. Looking more than a tad disdainful. Ultimately, everyone complains that this restaurant just isn’t what it used to be.
But they all admit that the view remains superb.
Location, location, location.

…click to listen:

…about the music

An excerpt from a restful new release.

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Despite all the beautiful beautiful beautiful things I see when I’m in the air,

Zipping past Mount Rainier… oooh…

Approaching the narrow South Beach area of San Juan Island, with other isles in the background… aahhhh…

I’m celebrating being in the midst of a three month stretch during which my feet are not leaving the ground.

I sail and hike and kayak and scramble and drive around this beautiful beautiful beautiful place. When human visitors come to my doorstep, I take them along for the adventures.

And every day, when non-human visitors come to my doorstep, they take me on their adventures.

Escher-esque: editing a twilight photo I had just shot of the eagle on the rock in front of me, while the eagle is on the rock in front of me.

A pod of orcas glides by my toes.

YIPPEE!!. Or something like that.

It’s hilariously distracting when I’m on a business call and these guys are hurling themselves out of the water in front of me (I will never get over my great fortune to work at a desk with this view, instead of, like, an airshaft). Sometimes I giddily describe the scene to whoever’s on the phone. And other times (during more, uh, professional calls), the person on the other end has no idea that as I’m oh-so-professionally discussing whatever professional bit of professional stuff we’re talking about, I’m silently going !!OHMYGAWD!! and clicking away on my camera. Sometimes.

Also airborne are these folks. Except in the brief moments their teeny tiny feet curl around the feeder.

And then there are the land-based guests.

This fox comes around regularly, and has mastered the art of the marvelously pathetic, pleading stare. The aliens do their best to ignore him.

I can’t quite tell what he thinks about my music.

Until he comes to the door and reports to me in no uncertain terms exactly which notes I need to change.

So, that’s this week’s chamber of commerce visitor tourism overview. Stay tuned for more Island Adventures with Al!

Yes, I AM behind the wheel of a road grader. Don’t even ask… is that the theme to Green Acres I hear?

…click to listen:

…about the music

Through the archipelago.

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These simple photos from a little July 4 jaunt from San Juan to neighboring Lopez Island, tell the whole story.

It was very calm.

Awoke at home to a pod of orcas just past the deck.
Headed down to the dock.
Loaded the sailboat (quite similar to the one in the above photo) with getaway supplies:
dinghy (in case a getaway was needed),
freshly grown salad greens,
wild salmon for the boat grill,
red wine,
and Swiss chocolates that came from a real live Swiss friend who visited last week.
Oh, and good coffee for the morning, too.

Looking west to the Olympics, while sailing south.

It was very calm.

We glided across the water, sometimes at 4 knots
and more often at less than 1.
More time to talk to the passing seals or birds.
I’ve always been a stop and smell the kelp kind of sailor.
And, apparently, a protégé of Dr. Doolittle.

The dinghy followed like a cute puppy.

It was very calm.

And as twilight arrived,
it was
even
calmer.

Anchored with plenty of room at Fisherman’s Bay, as seen from a galley port.

Until it wasn’t.
When all that calm
was interrupted with colorful
noise
reflected brilliantly in the water.

And the next morning?
It was even calmer.

Looking east toward Shaw and Orcas islands.

So calm, in fact, that we had to do what sailors
hate
to do.
We turned on the engine.

We must have known there was a party waiting for us back at the house, and didn’t want to be late:

The scene was exactly as it had been left, with the ironic commentary of a little sailboat
replaced
by a little powerboat.

But only when it comes to photos. I am grateful for the whales, the sails,
and the very,
very
calm quiet of this island summer.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Music for easy ascension.

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Earlier on this hazy day, a small private seaplane flew quite low over the roof of my house. In the summertime, while not legal, this isn’t entirely unusual, and I didn’t think anything of it.
Until it landed right in front of me, about 100 yards from the shore.

This hasn’t happened since I’ve lived in this spot. Sure, there are tons of float planes here, but in this corner of the island, they remain floating– in the air. A pod of orcas had passed by not much earlier. Was this a newfangled whale-watching tour?

From my desk as it came from the sky…

It was a controlled landing, so if it was an emergency, at least it was a slow-motion one.
I palmed my binoculars.

Maybe it was a student getting flying lessons. Lesson #1: do not land on a whale. Lesson #2: do not fly into a bald eagle. Lesson #3: do not crash into someone’s bathroom (in all cases it will be quite a mess and not work out well for any involved).

The pilot shut down the propeller. The starboard hatch opened and human legs dangled. The person, at best guess a female, was dressed in all-black that looked like either a neoprene wetsuit, or a typical New York City art world fashion statement.
Finally, someone bringing a little style to the ‘hood.

She got out, stood, looked at the struts and under the body.
What, did she drop her keys?
Then she knelt on one of the floats.
Maybe it was a SCUBA diving tour?

After calmly checking around, she (I think) climbed back in the plane to join what seemed to be more than one person inside. The little Lego flying object floated on the water a while, bobbing like an adorable bathtub toy.
And then, it headed straight toward me.
At slow speed, thankfully.

I stood barefoot on the deck, thinking:

1. They are in distress of some sort, their communications are down, and they’ll call out to me to get them a tow.

2. It’s a woman pilot who is not afraid to ask someone for directions and hey, I happen to be handy since there’s absolutely nothing between me and Port Townsend.

3. They are baking a cake on board and need to borrow a cup of sugar.

The other thought that went through my mind was the one that occurs to many an artist who works at home, when an unexpected visitor comes to the door:

“It’s 1 p.m. and I’m in my bathrobe. Crap, what are these people going to think??”

The plane came so close to the house that I could easily have accommodated any and all of the above requests. In the comfort of my bathrobe, no less.

But none were made: just before touching the strands of bull kelp, it turned and continued a couple of hundred yards south.

Right into the cove. A dead-end if ever there was one.

Unless, of course, this is one of those amazing amphibious vehicles that can crawl up onto the beach, get into four wheel drive, and tromp around the island. When I lived in Santa Barbara, I remember seeing a similar tourist bus called the Land Shark.
Maybe they’re paying a surprise visit to one of my neighbors?

Then the little Tonka Toy spun around to face the open sea, its engine revved, and like an awkward bird, it made use of a good amount of watery runway before lifting into the air.

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…

Well, sort of lifting into the air: two seconds later it ducked down and the starboard float hit the water. I was momentarily worried. Then happily, The Little Seaplane That Could, did.

Bye bye cute toy!
Safe travels, wherever they take you. And may you remain aloft, until you choose to be afloat.

…click to listen:

…about the music

I am reminded of Juan Rulfo’s short story, “Luvina”.

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Few experiences are more decadent than chugging through hot, thick green, humid countryside in a huge, brand spanking new, air-conditioned tour bus, only a quarter of which is filled with fellow tourists. That these traveling companions happened to be sixteen spirited art advocates devoted to the United States’ oldest artist residency program, The MacDowell Colony, and that I happened to be the lucky composer invited to come along as the Colony’s “arts ambassador,” made the journey particularly special.

Of course, so did occasionally swigging from bottles of cheap rum in the back of the bus like misbehaving school kids.

But most strikingly decadent of all was that this wasn’t the usual straw-hat-and-SPF tourist junket Americans tend to favor. No.

We were rumbling through the streets and countryside of Cuba.
And we were riding in luxury…

(Irony doesn’t begin to describe it: during part of a four hour ride from Havana to Cienfuegos, we were shown the 20/20 interviews Barbara Walters did with Fidel Castro).

…in a place in which very, very few can afford any ride at all.

A month after returning, I’m still processing the trip, though the rum has long since filtered through my happily besotted liver. I’m certain I’ll still be thinking about Cuba for a very long time. In fact, I had so many contrasting experiences in the mere eight days inhaled on the island, that pondering just how to present them all within these pixels, I concluded that the most verbose composer you may know is incapable of choosing the words and photographs that could possibly do any of it justice.

But of course, being the most verbose composer you may know, that does not stop me from posting something.

Um, how do you say, “loquacious” in Spanish?

And so, I depart for a moment from my regularly scheduled giddy blog programming of San Juan Island nature, in all its freedom and joy, so that I may bring you a glimpse of another isle that is the exact same, meager, 90-mile distance to Key West as my home is to Tacoma. That linear span, and the non-linear one of joy, are possibly the sole things Cuba has in common with the States. Freedom has been missing there for a very, very long time.

One of the many 18th century canons overlooking Havana’s harbor from the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña.

The hypocritical convenient workaround to be able to enter Cuba from the U.S. these days, is that our arts-oriented trip had to comply with being deemed a “humanitarian mission.” Thus, we each lugged roughly ten pounds of school and medical supplies with us, to donate to a church that will distribute them. As I observed throughout the week, the gifts of band-aids, Bic pens and chalk– quite simple by U.S. standards– were much needed.

Our group, with Jesus’s torso dangling above our heads, and a very kind nun sticking real close to me to make sure I didn’t drink all the communion wine.

The art-making in Cuba is fantastic. We viewed a terrific amount of it during the visit, which coincided with Havana’s Bienale, a city-wide festival celebrating Cuba’s contemporary art with a surprising degree of stark socio-political commentary. Visual arts, performance art, theater, photography, dance, and of course, music, are vibrant there, and the artists are highly active and valued. In fact, artists are among the best paid people in this country, in which the average monthly income for professionals like doctors and engineers can be as little as $20. Hmmm…

So there I was in the midst of it all; by day, visiting studios and passing sophisticated art installations along Havana’s seaside Malecón, and by night, swinging my lilting hips to the incredible sounds of the Buena Vista Social Club musicians…

… as Fidel…

… and the ghost of Che…

…lorded over the deterioration and slums surrounding the venues in which those amazing artists worked and performed.

From their soviet-era perch over Plaza de la Revolución, the former rebels, who once might have offered Cubans an option more attractive than the Batista-era corruption (replete with tacky mafia casinos and big-time Hollywood celebs), remind artists and their fellow Cubans that they best not take their free expression too far. After seeing plenty of paintings that were obviously critical of the country, I asked a Cuban how it was possible that these pieces were allowed to be publicly displayed. The answer: as long as no artist disses The Man himself, Fidel Castro. Should they dare, they will be essentially blacklisted and unable to participate in government exhibits (read: the important ones), nor will their, uh, standard of living, be nearly as comfortable.

Um, how do you say, “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose” in Spanish?

It’s as if the hope these men once offered is frozen on the face of a broken clock, by which people are ordered to tell accurate time.

Graphics, particularly of Che Guevara, abound throughout the city. Perhaps it’s metaphoric that his image is often found on peeling plaster.

Gazing high into the clouds, turkey vultures can almost always be spotted circling above Havana.
They are waiting for the buildings to die.

This tree grows defiantly, five stories above the middle of the city, like an air fern clinging stubbornly to a soil-less rock. Human nature is like this: it will find a way to survive under the most inconvenient of circumstances.

But forget about living analogies. Daily life in Cuba is like an iceberg: the part seen above the water belies the magnitude of what lurks beneath the visible surface.

And in Cuba, much occurs beneath the visible surface: not only amidst the rulers, but amidst those who are ruled. Despite the endless list of basic necessities that Cubans are either denied, or out-priced from obtaining, they still find very creative ways to wheel and deal for what they can. Everybody’s got an angle on something. Everybody knows somebody who can line them up with what they need, at a better price. The problem is that it’s still never enough to make a real difference.

Unless, of course, it’s almost too much. Well, for the tourists.
Everything you’ve heard about the Tropicana? Yes, it’s true.
Except that all those gorgeous writhing dancing bodies are wearing body suits, dammit! Nonetheless, I was not about to leave Cuba without experiencing this quintessential outdoor nightclub’s titillating extravaganza-on-a-communist-budget spectacle. Just imagine.
That’s right, you can’t. And I still can’t, and I witnessed the damn thing.

With every ticket, a table gets a fifth of cheap rum.
Let me confess, that was not quite enough rum to anesthetize my comrades and I, once the singers departed from the great Afro-Cuban numbers, went on to the well, okay, disco-Cuban stuff, and then launched into a cheesy-synth, harshly mic’ed, Phantom of the Opera set.

Um, how do you say, “oy, vey!” in Spanish?
Moving right along…

After several days in Havana, we timed our arrival on the other side of the island in lovely, 500-year old Trinidad, to coincide perfectly with that of a tropical storm. Undeterred by a little bit deluge of warm Caribbean rain, one evening after dinner a handful of us ventured a quarter mile from the hotel to see what music was going on at the local joint, Casa de Trova. It was not: the locals had far more sense than silly tourists. And then it was, thanks to a chance encounter I had while paused in the wet darkness across the street from the entrance, trying to figure out how to cross a suddenly raging current that was quickly turning the cobblestone into a river bed, in order to join two friends on the other side. Yes, this sounds like a chicken joke. Anyway, as I stood there like a drowned rat, a young man hurried past me in his effort to get home. It was the sole person I knew in the village, Edgar the magician, who had given a few of us an impromptu performance at the hotel the previous night.

“Edgar!”
“Alessandra?!”
I mean, really: what are the chances?
When I explained that we had shown up hoping to hear music, Edgar heroically announced, “I’m a musician!”
Unconcerned by the veracity of his claim, I removed my shoes and we made it across.
Edgar got a friend to bring over a guitar. Bongos were already mounted on a stand.
He and his friend were terrific. We sang and clapped and danced and drank our Bucanero beer from happy red cans.
And the rain came down. And down. In torrents.
And the raging river of the main plaza began coursing into the club.

There may have been six or seven of us in there, and as the water rose, so did we. Migrating with a relaxed sense of, uh, urgency, to the back section of the Casa de Trova as a stream now impressively cascaded down the stairs that were inside the club, we proceeded to hole up for the next couple of hours, hoping the electricity would stay on if only to keep the beer cold. A set of rapids zipped through the streets at calf level, and the little village was now impassable. But the more convincing reason to hang out with another cerveza and a few more rounds of Guantanamera was that the locals feared power lines were down (did I mention the really high winds?) and we’d be electrocuted. Oh, that.

Sometime before 1 a.m. there was a slight break in the downpour, and we decided it was safe enough to try to return to the hotel. Edgar and his friend were quite noble and insisted on seeing the three of us back, which was entirely the opposite direction of where they needed to go.

The most memorable parts of a trip are often the most unexpected ones. The sensation of hard, slippery cobblestone under my bare soaked feet as I tried to keep my balance while negotiating 500-year old, empty streets-turned-creeks in the dark of Trinidad, is one I will not forget. I suddenly felt connected to the generations before me, for whom this would have been the norm.

Um, how do you say, “thanks, guys!” in Spanish?

It was not yet 2 a.m. when I opened the door to my very nice hotel room to find half of it lightly flooded. Being on the second of several floors, I had no idea where all the water had come from. It didn’t matter. I found a dry spot in which to sleep, and by eight the next morning, our bus and its still-damp occupants retraced the path back to Havana.

The Prado, which boasts the five-star hotel in which we stayed, was once beautiful. Its polished stone benefits from the shine of the rain, the way dim light in a cocktail bar catches the high cheekbones of an aging woman who was a stunner in her twenties.

Turn up the lights, and be confronted with the truth.

As I hiked down one side of the wide colonnade and up the other, conflicting emotions of “this is so wonderful/this is so deeply sad” were interrupted too regularly by aggressive cat calls. A necessary uptick in my gait precluded my ability to shoot as many photos as I might have liked.

Walking through Havana is like experiencing the fall of Rome in a stop-animation film. This was an elegant city, filled with outstanding Colonial architecture that has been allowed to decay nearly beyond recognition. Gazing into the deepening layers of crumbling plaster is an exercise in socio-political archeology. Like jaw-breaker candies, every few licks of weather, history and strife reveal a new color of paint from a previous era. And every one of those colors has a story.
Oh, if these walls could talk.

Bare, decaying flesh of architectural history. Vibrant, warm Cubans. They share a technicolor exterior.

A revolution is indeed needed.

And the Cubans are still waiting.

Could a tourist take a look at seedier parts of Manhattan and make the same, negative assumptions about the United States? Sure. You can stay at a five-star in some parts of town, and walk half a block to a neighborhood whose residents couldn’t afford even one of the hotel’s washcloths. But the U.S., for all its many faults, is a free country in which the majority, if sadly not all, of its citizens have the option to do better.

Cuba is a world of contradictions. Where the promise of boundless utopia is slapped with the reality of unnecessary limitation.

Cuba provides free housing, but many of its people cannot afford electricity, telephone service, or house repairs.
Cuba provides free education, but many of its school rooms have few pencils and paper, much less computers.
Cuba provides free medical care, but many of its clinics and pharmacies remain understocked, lacking even the most basic necessities.
Cuba is covered with abundant, fertile countryside, yet vast landscapes of it lie unused in the face of a hungry population that has the potential to feed itself– and others.
The Cuban leaders say they want to help their people, yet they make it almost impossible to have WiFi, and censor what little of the internet can, at great expense, be glimpsed.

And the American government remains stuck in a 50 year old grudge-match embargo that has accomplished virtually nothing.

There is such beauty in this place.

The vista on the way to Cienfuegos and Trinidad.

There is such potential.

The Gran Teatro de La Habana is absolutely gorgeous.

There is such hope.

The art being made at Instituto Superior de Artes is first rate.

There is such frustration.

Taxi drivers repair their sixty year old American cars in front of the Capital building.

In electronic music, we refer to four, alterable states of sound collectively known as the envelope: Attack. Decay. Sustain. Release. Each of these events occur in linear time, and each can be adjusted from lasting an instant to a very, very long duration.

If only I had an envelope generator in my state-of-the-art digital project studio that could adjust Cuba.

This decay has sustained. Far, far too long. We wait for the release of the spirit and freedom of the wonderful people who call this beautiful island home.

Um, how do you say, “viva Cuba libre!” in Spanish?
Oh, wait…

Meanwhile, pass that rum to the back of the bus, por favor…!

…click to listen:

…about the music

A who’s who of who’s not.

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My next post will offer a few ponderings about last month’s Cuba experience. But today, having just returned from a quick trip to New York, I thought I’d share this amusing, if meaningless moment. Kelp Lite: half the pith but just as filling!

Faithful followers of my peripatetic adventures know that I bop around quite a bit, particularly during the three seasons that are not referred to as “summer.” That one, I do my best to preserve for algae-laden forays right here on beautiful San Juan Island.

Did you ever see the 2009 George Clooney film, “Up in the Air”?
Remember how he played a guy who worked so much he was virtually never home, constantly flinging himself around the U.S. on a particular airline, eagerly anticipating the day when he would be dubbed a Ten Million Mile Flyer? And the emotional scene in which he finally, finally achieved that heady goal?

I am not that character.
Nonetheless, though falling quite short of AAA-rated airborne wealth, I’ve managed to accumulate enough junk bond/penny-ante miles to launch me to the front of the plane more than half of the time I’m on one (I’ve blogged about the perks, here. ). Upgrades are very nice. Free booze and electrical outlets. And a dearth of tireless toddlers to torment the back of my seat with their toes and their tirades.

On my most recent flight this week from New York back to Seattle, I was upgraded to my favorite spot: row 1, a leg-roomy bulkhead window seat. I could have co-piloted the plane, and would be the very first person off when we landed (giving me the giddy, if fleeting, illusion of disembarking from a private jet chartered for my sole use. Well, of course.). I immediately settled in for the five and a half hour jaunt with my comfort necessities: noise-canceling headphones, plus my iPhone, MacBook Air, and their respective power cords. Barely audible through The Magic That is Bose was the standard announcement over the PA system, thanking Delta’s frequent flyers, and in particular their Gold, Platinum and Million Miler flyers. They usually don’t bother to mention that last category, much less in plural, and I momentarily imagined a plane full of humans whose shoes are in perfect condition because their feet rarely touch the earth. And, how pathetic that would be.

The flight was uneventful, which is precisely the quality everyone looks for in a flight. Just before the head attendant had to strap herself in for whatever type of landing (and oh, there are some creative ones) was imminent, she stopped in front of me and extended her hand. I was wearing my magic headphones and had Radiohead cranked up to eleven on my iPhone. I assumed I was about to be sternly scolded for not having “powered down” my electronic device. This is one of those delightful directives brought to you by the ever-vigilant TSA, who fear that the power of any Apple product is so divine and extraordinary, it can bring down a 757. Interestingly, there has never once been a report of a large commercial airliner experiencing communications interference from a text message and plummeting to earth. The aircraft are shielded, of course. But why should this fact this stop the TSA from finding yet another way to hassle me?

I looked up from my sonic immersion, almost startled, and probably appeared to be a combination of confused and guilty. The TSA Kabuki theater is an effective behavioral modifier, even when performed in front of the philosophically defiant. The attendant’s hand remained suspended in front of me, and now her lips were moving. I removed the headphones.

She gazed at me and cooed. “I just want to thank you for being a Million Miler flyer, and want to tell you how deeply Delta Airlines appreciates your business and your continuing loyalty. You are a valued customer.”
Still in possession of that befuddled look on my face, I instinctively reached my right hand toward hers, and graciously shook it.

I could have just said, “Oh, you have me confused with another passenger who probably booked this seat and then cancelled it.”
Yes, I could have said that.
I did not.
I simply smiled professionally, looked right into her eyes, nodded confidently, and replied,
“Thank you.”

I was first off the plane, and walked proudly down the jetway with my millionth and one mile now neatly racked up.
At least, in my mind and that of one sweet, ill-informed flight attendant.
The heady illusion of deplaning my own private jet had never been stronger.
A gull like me could get used to this.

…click to listen:

…about the music

Surfacing.

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Back.
From Cuba.
It was a profound trip, and I’m still searching for the best ways in which to describe it all.
More rum will probably help. That is, if there’s any left.

This is a country of great beauty and mind-boggling contradictions. Of enormous potential and infuriating limitations.
Of fantastic, fantastic, music and art and people.
It is a place that is stubbornly stuck, looking backward to an era that at the time appeared forward-looking to many.

So for a post or two, I’ll substitute images far from my kelpy home for those far from my comfort level. And maybe yours.

I’ll be back. To Cuba, someday, because it’s riveting.
And right here on this blog, very soon, because I have glimpses to share, if I can find the words.
And the rum.

…click to listen:

…about the music

A little unconnected music.

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Well, tomorrow I leave for yet another adventure on yet another island: Cuba! I’m the lucky bird who’s been invited to be the “artist ambassador” on a trip organized by the oldest artist residency in the U.S., The MacDowell Colony, on whose board I serve and of which I’m a former Fellow. Along with roughly 15 other fun MacDowellophiles, I’ll be meeting with cultural organizations and wonderful Cuban artists from all disciplines, basking in their work and sharing what we do here in the U.S. Oh, and perfecting my Mojito mixology…

I won’t be bringing my laptop, so my email access will be limited. But I’ll be taking lots of photos and video to share here on the e-pages of Kelpville after I’m back home on the 26th. As you’ve probably noticed, I rarely discuss my work or non-nature-based travels in this algae-infused corner of the internet; I figure if anyone’s curious about how I make my living and spend my time when I’m not sneaking up on unsuspecting wildlife, they’ll click on through to the other side. But I suspect that the experiences from this trip will result in a worthy exception, even if the local wildlife is brightly plumed salsa dancers. Especially if.

So, hasta mañana! ‘Til then, hold all my quails, please.