Andante Contemplativo

Daily Coffee

2012-02-23T16:57:00.000-08:00

I know I shouldn't
drink it so often,
this bittersweet liquid
in its porcelain mug,

but it's like time spent with you in that,

even when it's not perfect,
it still pleases
and warms me.

It's clear to me then that

I really don't want
to start my day
without it.

And I always want more,

you see,
but too much
gives me palpitations.

So I take

just one more sip,
and force myself
to put that mug down.

It's not long, though,

before I'm thinking about
the other day when we talked and talked
about nothing and everything.

And it's not long before

I'm reaching for my cell phone
and starting to compose
my first text-message of the day

to you.

Good Times

2011-12-19T14:44:00.000-08:00

Two pairs of naked knees;

one hill;

one red wagon with no brakes onit.

*****

Bottle stopped spinning;

first kiss through lips clenched tight;

street lights coming on now.

*****

Seasick on my Grandpa's motorboat

catching croakers

outside the bay.

******

Bright sand sears the virgin soles

of our feet;

then they reach the cool green waves.

******

Speaking of which,

that sand clings deliciously

to intimate places.

******

It's like

the random things I think of

when I feel my age like today.

Bed 12

2011-12-06T17:25:00.001-08:00

The telemetry monitor
at the nursing station
alarms periodically

on account of
bed twelve's

long and slow

cardiac pauses

limping
across the screen.

Resting there

a moment
I think,

as long as
my heart
keeps beating,

I want to

always be kind
to everyone,

even the son,

of said bed twelve,
who,

purple-faced,

screamed at me,
and my charge nurse,

because I didn't answer

the call-light
immediately.

Still, I want to always
give all that I got
to everything I do,

whether it be to

cleaning bed twelve's poop,
or urine,

or whatever

body fluids
have soiled her bed sheets

or splattered

onto the hard, cold
floor,

or to afterward
guiding her son
to the side of her bed,

and encouraging him
to place his hand

on her fading brow,

as we watch
her breast
rise and fall

to no
discernible

rhythm.

The alarm
is crying
incessantly now,

speaking

like a
commandment.

I sigh,
reflecting a moment longer
on the now, flat-green line on the screen,

then turn and go

to discharge bed twelve
to heaven.

Bach: Sarabande

2011-11-29T06:06:00.001-08:00

This is a very old clip of me playing Bach's Sarabande from the 3rd cello suite, transcribed for guitar. It is about February of 1991 and I am a very young 23. I hadn't even started wearing glasses yet! The playing is not as refined as it is in my senior recital videos, but I always did love this peice and wanted to share.

Enduring

2011-11-26T15:20:00.001-08:00

It's hard to believe

a sequoia,

with its thick gnarled base

thrusting up

out of the earth

began its life

a thousand years ago

as a fragile green sapling,

but looks now

as if

it could go on tickling

the soft bellies of clouds

with its feathered tip,

as it sways and bends

slightly with the wind,

for a full millennium.

And that gothic cathedral

I saw in France

so many years ago

with its silent

saints and gargoyles

poised in eternal worship,

all of its flying buttressesand pointed arches;

indeed all of its majesty,

was founded

over eight-hundred years ago

upon a single stone

set in the mud.

And yet it too

still stands

as if

it will go on

praying to heaven

for another eight centuriesor more.

As I think about

our new

courtship,

I marvel how it has begun

with a simple

dance,

and how

each time we meet now

the music swells

as it wraps us

in its warmth,

sweeping us up

with the promise of enduring

as together

we spread our arms wide

and embrace the spinningstars.

Buxtehude: sarabande from e-minor suite

2011-10-30T11:06:00.001-07:00

Second movement from same suite in e-minor.

Buxtehude: allemande from e-minor suite

2011-10-30T11:04:00.001-07:00

Solo clip from the same concert. This is the first movement of the e-minor suite by Buxtehude.

Villa Lobos: Alma Brasileira

2011-10-30T10:42:00.000-07:00

Here is another clip of Kerri Burgess, Andrew Hull, and myself playing over a Grossmont College on April 2, 1993. Once again, the camera ran out of juice right in the middle of the piece, but I was able to capter the beginning. I really love this piece; just wish we could've done it real justice.

Notes on October Sky

2011-10-28T20:18:00.001-07:00

In August of 1989 I moved to San Francisco to begin my studies as aclassical guitarist at the conservatory there. During my first semester I was living in the University of San Francisco dormson Lone Mountain, and I would often walk around the campusduring the twilight hours, passing by the university's cathedral. On these little walks I would sometimes think about music orlife, but most days I just thought of nothing at all.

San Franciscois famous for its fog, and even in August it clung damp and cold to a San Diego boy used toyear-round clear weather. I was justgetting used to the daily gloom when suddenly in October the sky opened up,clean and full of stars. During one ofmy early evening walks I looked up and saw the cathedral dome there, setagainst the twilit heavens.

It is a wonder to me why of all of the many memorable eventsof that time of my life, this one moment, comes to me so often. It is only natural that I tried to capture it,however unsuccessfully, in a poem as brief as was the experience.

October Sky

2011-10-28T19:59:00.001-07:00

What is it
that

makes one
remember

a cathedral dome
pondering

the miracle of the
stars

beneath a clear
sheet

of blue and green
some

twenty years
later?

The thing about trains...

2011-10-25T18:30:00.000-07:00

The thing about trains is that they can bring either a greeting or afarewell. They can take you away from somewhere (orsomeone for that matter) just as easily as they can take you there. And sometimes, like the Yamate line in Tokyo, they can circle around and bring youright back to where you started.

Mourning Egg

2011-10-23T02:55:00.000-07:00

My egg died at breakfast when it dove for the floor to escape the pan.

The Cable Car

2011-09-24T12:55:00.000-07:00

Bags already packed,
we're about to make the long drive back home,
but then

Clang, clang, clang!

We slam that car trunk shut
and run
to the public-transport stop.

Breathing hard,
I help you climb up to the landing
and we board.

Clang, clang, clang!

A mild jerk
and we're
moving.

I guide you to the only open seat;
your legs,
too short to reach the ground,

swing and swing.

Clang, clang, clangety-clang!

Our conductor is a live one
with the way he works
that bell!

The early morning air
sears
our nostrils,

the growling cable
grinds us
up the hill,

and San Francisco
is in your
wide eyes;

and then a tear.

Years have passed
and I regret
not having been present

as often
as I should,
with being an ocean apart

now.

But I pray nightly that
whatever you think of me as a father
you'll remember that day

we rode the cable car.

The Road Less Travelled

2011-09-24T00:27:00.000-07:00

by Anthony Jesse

This is the original draft of an article I wrote for Acoustic Guitar Magazine in 1996.  Due to space constraints, the editors of the magazine cut out much of what I wrote with the result that the final published version lost much of the spirit of the original. I always wanted to publish the original, but due to copyright laws (the magazine publishers have rights to the work) I have been unable to approach other magazines with it. So, I decided to post it here and share it with you. Enjoy.

Dusan Bogdanovic and I are sitting in the kitchen of his San Francisco flat; the very place he formulates his musical ideas and commits them to paper. Orderly stacks of publications and rows of pencils sit between us while I sip my coffee, and he his tea. The crisp morning sun filters in through the curtains and the open door to the nook while Bogdanovic tells of the moment he decided to become a classical musician:
"After I listened to that passacaglia in c minor for organ by Bach...," he began.

(At that I begin to sing the ground bass.)

"That's the one—yes! That's the one. That definitely turned me on to classical music. After I listened to that piece I thought, well, this is really the summit; the top. I felt that the incredible perfection, the beauty and expressiveness of that music was reason enough to dedicate my life to classical music."

At that point, the Yugoslav-born musician took the first steps in the long journey that would be his musical career; but, not wanting to limit himself to interpreting the music of others, he formed his own path within the classical guitar world. Through a synthesis of composition, improvisation, scholarship, performance, and the integration of ethnic musical idioms, he has created a unique voice, the sincerity of which has touched audiences from Eastern Europe to Far East Asia.

Bogdanovic started his career at the age of 20 when he completed his studies in guitar and composition at the Geneva Conservatory. In the two years that followed, he took First Prize at the International Guitar Competition in Geneva, began teaching at the Conservatory, and gave a successful debut at Carnegie Hall—an intense career as a traditional classical guitarist was in full swing. But hardly a year later, in the midst of this success, Bogdanovic found himself in a difficult situation that forced him to rethink his artistic direction. The rigid demands of his concert schedule were not allowing him the space to develop his creativity and the pressures of maintaining such a focused career at so young an age became unbearable. Under these conditions, he was unable to express himself fully:

"I felt like my life was so defined, that I might as well die right now, and it wouldn't make much difference. It's sort of like having this computer program run and then everything is programmed for the future; you know what will happen to you. I felt that I definitely didn't want that to happen to me."

Equally disturbing was the realization that he had not even chosen this touring focus for himself. Until then, he had never seriously thought about what he wanted to accomplish with his music, or the specific direction he wanted to take. He was standing at a crossroads similar to what Robert Frost describes in his poem, The Road Not Taken. Bogdanovic could have continued on down the secure, conventional path, but that way seemed a little too worn; so he chose the other:

"One day I just decided I was canceling all of my concerts," he recalls. "Then I just took a break—I just took a long, long break."

This decision to redirect his life was greatly misunderstood:

"Well, it was a disaster obviously," he says of the cancellations. Concerts had been scheduled long in advance and some of the promoters were angry at the young performer's audacity. Still the break seemed to be just what the developing artist needed. For the better part of three years, he practically gave up playing the guitar and spent his time living as simply as he could, just trying to experience life. This period developed a reflective space where he could take the time to prioritize his interests and rediscover his motivations.

"And it was great," he said contentedly, surrounded by the savory smells of his kitchen. "It was great for me because I could suddenly reevaluate all the decisions I had made. After that I really opened myself up to a much larger world and much larger view of what it is to be a musician—and what it is to be a human being."

Of course the inspiration of Bach's passacaglia wouldn't allow him to stay away from music long, so he began to rebuild his career. In the early eighties, he immigrated to the United States and settled in Los Angeles. He began teaching at the University of Southern California, and began touring as a member of the Falla Trio. In 1989 he moved north, joining the faculty of the San Francisco Conservatory of Music*.

Although Bogdanovic once again finds himself in the midst of a successful music career, he has been careful to define this career by making creativity and expression its main focus. These days he allows plenty of space for experiments like his improvisatory collaborations with Miroslav Tadic, James Newton and Milcho Leviev. He prefers to play his own compositions and rarely performs the standard repertoire. When he does do more traditional works, creativity seems to take control as is apparent in the highly imaginative arrangements he and Elaine Camparone did for the Bach with Pluck CDs.

His music has been steadily gaining in popularity ever since his first pieces were published in 1980 and his compositions have been recorded by such internationally known guitarists as, Eduardo Isaac, William Kanengiser, Andriano Sebastiani, the Newman-Oltman and Gruber-Maklar Guitar Duos, and the Asti Quartet. His Six Illuminations For Piano, are being recorded and performed by Brazilian pianist Fabio Luz, and a commission from the Pacific Dance Company was the stimulus for his "contemporary blues ballet-poem," Crow, based on the poetry of Ted Hughes.

Bogdanovic's compositional style blends a variety of ethnic idioms with conventional forms from the classical tradition. The irregular meters of Balkan music, the improvisational technique and harmonic language of jazz, Indian raga forms, African polyrhythms, the influence of modern rock and soul, European art music and the music of Brazil are just a few of the flavors that seep into his works. Specific examples of his particular kind of integration can be found in the way Indian Raga influenced the forms for his two Raguettes. Also a fascination with the complicated polyrhythms of West African music was the stimulus for his Polyrhythmic and Polymetric Studies for Guitar and Seven Easier Polymetric Studies. Polyrhythm has since been an important part of his technique and has added to an already sophisticated sense of rhythm inherited from his Balkan background.

Unlike most classical guitarists, Bogdanovic has developed a refined style of improvisation based on the same musical languages and rhythmic diversity found in his notated compositions. He uses this spontaneous way of expressing himself in many of his recorded works. But despite his extensive use of improvisation, most of his music is still notated out in the traditional classical manner and the process of composition itself is something that fascinates him. "Written music deals with the human capacity to abstract, freeze time and perfect things," he explains. "You're completely independent of the time process itself because real time goes on while you compose, and yet the music you compose, is suspended in an abstract, completely free space. You can then perfect the music until it really becomes a crystallization of a sort."

This process is something he believes is essential to all art forms, but the beauty this creates carries with it an inspirational paradox. He says that art is a "perfecting and concentrating of various levels of being; but, that means death to all the other levels of human being that are not involved in the creation of that perfection." In other words, art is something like a well-composed snapshot. Within the confines of the picture, everything is exactly where it is supposed to be. The picture is ultimately perfect; but, everything outside the frame is missing. At the same time, the photo is manipulated and idealized in a way that can never be recreated in real life.

"And there is something incredibly inspiring about that," he claims. "It is an uplifting experience because you're dealing with a perfectly harmonized and fully expressive human world. But in some ways, because this never exists in reality, there is a real downer side to that. However, I still think that art, (and the state it creates), is nevertheless something we should aspire to. I think it is some kind of ideal—and true as any ideal, in some ways it makes for difficult living in this world, which is certainly not ideal for anyone."

But for all that, Bogdanovic seems to be coexisting peacefully in these sometimes incompatible worlds. It is easy to see that he belongs right where he is, having picked his way carefully through the contradictions, creating his own artistic voice. And sipping my coffee here in Bogdanovic's kitchen, I can almost imagine that it was he, not Frost, who had written the words:

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages gone hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

*At the time this article was written (1996), Bogdanovic was still teaching at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. He has since left the school and is currently on the faculty of the Geneva Conservatory.

Thoughts on Spirituality, Part 1: An Introduction.

2011-09-22T00:59:00.000-07:00

I don't think I am alone when I say that I feel there are some things in this world we can never explain through empirical study. That is why I believe that as powerful and enlightening as the scientific process is, there will always be a need for spiritual practice. Why are we here and what is our purpose? Why do we possess the miracle of consciousness? Science cannot really answer these questions, for although the discipline does a great job of explaining how this universe works, it falls short on answering the big questions that have preoccupied some of the world's greatest minds for millennia. Some would argue that spiritual practice cannot really give us definitive answers to these questions either, but it forces us to define these things in our own minds, which I personally believe is of great practical value.

For example, consider day-to-day living. Science cannot guide me in how to live my life. After all most of the current scientific theories describe an impersonal universe with destructive events of all scales and biology driven exclusively by the urge to survive. But what of the warmer and softer parts of nature? What of love, compassion, self-sacrifice, and altruism? Why do so many great thinkers place so much emphasis on these things and why are humans, despite their inclination toward negativity and self-interest, also inspired to think and act in ways that are good?

The great religious philosophies, as flawed as they are and as dangerous as they can be if taken too literally, do say many good things about how we should act. That is not to say that we should abandon science and take any religion as the ultimate reality and path; that would be ludicrous. But we can perhaps extract some of the core messages of a spiritual philosophy or philosophies that appeal to us and temper them with healthy skepticism and moderation to create personal guidelines for our morality and ethics. And having created these basic values for ourselves, we would be free to use the scientific method to explore the truth about the physical universe and inform our spiritual practice, whatever that may be.

If you know me then you probably already know that in addition to being a huge fan of science I have been a proponent of Buddhist thought for over twenty years. There are many reasons I chose to engage in this particular spiritual practice for such a significant portion of my life. First, I agree with Albert Einstein who is attributed to having said that:

“Buddhism has the characteristics of what would be expected in a cosmic religion for the future: It transcends a personal God, avoids dogmas and theology; it covers both the natural and the spiritual, and it is based on a religious sense aspiring from the experience of all things, natural and spiritual, as a meaningful unity.”

Furthermore, I have found some of the practices of the religion, such as meditation, study and visualization, to be very beneficial in cultivating inner peace and contentment.

However, it is important to note that I do not follow the religion strictly. There are many things about its traditional cosmology that I reject and some fundamental tenets that I question. In addition, I have recently begun to delve into some of the so-called "New Age" practices that have sprung up from the revival of ancient pre-Christian spirituality. But the thing that fascinates me most about classic Buddhism is that it actually encourages study, practice, and self-discovery as a way to analyze the teachings and determine for myself whether they make sense to me or not. The historical Buddha is quoted as saying:

"Do not accept anything by mere tradition ... Do not accept anything just because it accords with your scriptures ... Do not accept anything merely because it agrees with your pre-conceived notions ... But when you know for yourselves—these things are moral, these things are blameless, these things are praised by the wise, these things, when performed and undertaken, conduce to well-being and happiness—then do you live acting accordingly."

Buddhism puts the pursuit of wisdom at its core. For example, one revered teacher, Chökyi Nyima Rinpoche, states that, "One of our main tasks as human beings is to seek and to discover what is real and true." This implies that the Buddhist path should allow for the use of other practices, including, and perhaps most especially, the scientific process to help uncover the truth about existence.

The Dalai Lama regularly collaborates with scientists from around the world and writes:

"...spirituality must be tempered by the insights and discoveries of science. If as spiritual practitioners we ignore the discoveries of science, our practice is also impoverished."

He goes on to say:

"...spirituality and science are complementary but different investigative approaches with the same goal of seeking the truth...together they may contribute to expanding the horizon of human knowledge and wisdom."

And so as I followed the Buddhist path over the past two decades, I was encouraged to question, and was free to investigate a scientific view of the world. Furthermore, since dogma was de-emphasized, I even felt comfortable exploring elements of other philosophies and religions and incorporating them into my beliefs and practices. That has led me to where I find myself today: in a space in which I feel empowered to draw upon any source I feel is credible to help me seek the truth and define my own worldview.

So what does this all have to do with the music and poetry that have dominated this blog until now? The fact is that like most people, everything I do is driven by my own personal beliefs and perceptions. As I explore and grow I want to share some of my ideas with you. To that end, I will be incorporating these little commentaries into the mix. Read them or skip over them as you wish. But should you choose to read them, I hope you will gain some insight into my thinking and perhaps gain something from the experience.

I look forward to sharing more with you as time goes on.

Brouwer opening

2011-09-20T09:53:00.000-07:00

This is the opening of Brouwer's Tres Danzas Concertantes from the same 1993 concert as previous posts. We only got the first minute or so of it filmed because the camera ran out of batteries in the middle of the concert. A shame really because this was one of my favorite performances; lots of energy! I really miss playing on stage like this.

Alfonsino

2011-09-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

This is another clip from the recital I did here in San Diego back in April of 1993. It features two friends of mine, Kerry Burgess and Andrew Hull joining me on guitar. These guys drove all the way down from San Francisco to be a part of this. I always appreciated that they were willing to do that for me. In any event, I love this little Renaissance piece, especially the second half of it, and wanted to share.

African Lullaby

2011-02-01T08:14:00.000-08:00

When I was in my early 20's I worked for an art shop as a picture-framer. At the time there was a girl named, Julie Anne Wallace, that used to work on the retail floor of the store. She was a pretty little thing with big green eyes, but she never really talked to me much. One day she walked into the framing room right up to my workstation. The table I worked on was always covered with brown paper on top of which I would dress art pieces in their frames. Without saying anything, she wrote the following lines on the paper, turned, and walked out:

If I could, I’d give you wings
With tea-cup compliments; and give
You wings to fly with!
GO!

From then on, although we hardly ever spoke to each other, Julie would continue to come into the frame room from time-to-time, and in between dropping off framing orders, would write her little snippets on my work-table; many of which I cut out and kept. The one that struck me the most was a short refrain on Africa. It went:

I felt is; Squeeze the only route
In which Africa shall sap searing
Through my sandy toes oh…
Who knows, but we shall someday
Hold rays of sun in our hands.

A short time after that I moved to San Francisco to pursue music. It is sad that Julie and I were never really close outside of work and so I completely lost touch with her. But her poetry stayed with me. Thirteen years later I found myself reminiscing and re-reading some of her stuff. I was in the mood to write and decided to do something with her piece on Africa. The ensuing poem, titled "African Lullaby," is the result.

A quick note on the actual work is in order here. At first glance, "African Lullaby" reads like a love poem, but although it does have a sensual and romantic tone, it is addressed to no one in particular and is really a commentary on global socioeconomic inequality. At the time I wrote it I was living in Japan and I had a boss (an American, by the way) who dared to tell me one day that he thought that raising children wasn't as important a responsibility as running a company. He went on to say that there were too many babies in the world. We were sitting in one of the most prestigious restaurants in Tokyo, digesting heavy sauces, and I sat wondering in disgust how his designer suit and timepiece would hold up in the ghettos of Africa. I imagined they would have dragged him through the muddy streets of Somalia by his red silk tie, beating him and spitting on him along the way. "Too many babies in the world," I thought. "What of those poor children already born in places like Africa? Are we just going to let them suffer while we eat our haute cuisine?"

To those of us who live in affluent countries, the suffering that goes on in less-fortunate parts of the world seems surreal. But the painful existence of the people, and most especially the children, living in these areas is real indeed. In fact, in many ways they live more immediate lives than we do. So which is the dream and which is reality?

"African Lullaby" alludes to some events and unfortunate realities associated with the African continent. These include references to rampant famine, poverty and oppression; the 1994 genocide in Rwanda; the "blood-diamond" trade; the HIV epidemic; and the horrors of female genital mutilation (FGM), which is common throughout the continent, but most prevalent in the horn of Africa, in which it is estimated that 90 percent of women are victims of the practice. As a side note, Queen Makeda is the native name of the Queen of Sheba, who ruled a kingdom that occupied the horn of Africa during Biblical times. It is ironic that the "daughters" of this reportedly sensual woman, who is famous for her seduction of King Solomon, would be so sexually oppressed and abused. (The image I use in my reference to FGM in the poem is a bit risqué. I apologize in advance if I offend anyone.)

But that is enough commentary I think; time for the poem. So here goes...

African Lullaby
(Composed on a few lines conceived
by a fondly remembered acquaintance)

Some days the ache to run naked
through the Serengeti with nothing
but a tuft of dry grass cupping my need
feels like a flat iron blade cutting me off at the knees—
half man, half life, living in a half world.

Some days I’d dare to almost ask you, Come!
Leaping with wildebeests, laughing, then weeping
when pressed at last against their musky flanks, spent
we’d slip sleeping and breathe our escape into reality—
real pain, real death, real consciousness.

Maybe then we’d rise and step into some child.
Burying our sophistry deep in the cracked mud
we’d draw forth pure compassion, free-flowing
filling the ebon pool of her glowing face with joy,
rippling outward, bathing us in wreaths of wide-eyed violets.

But some say there’re too many babies in the world.

They quote Malthus
They quote Darwin
They quote the
International Monetary-something or other

(Just a simple-headed guitarist,
I don’t understand
what they’re talking about.)

But who knows, maybe someday
a star, falling from the crying womb
of desert sky singing will flood the Kalahari
with her native voice, cutting our
cautious complacency like rough diamonds.

But who knows, maybe someday
a Kenyan, crisp intellect defying
the ragged cuffs of his only pair of slacks
will create the vaccine for HIV, gifting the world
with a new generation of creative genius.

But who knows, maybe someday
the daughters of Queen Makeda
will lift their robes without shame,
offering untarnished flowers
to the tongue of empowering lust!

And as for the land—
that paradox of famine and fertility—
I felt it.

I felt it squeeze the only route
by which Africa could surge searing
through our sandy toes.

But who knows, maybe someday
we’ll go there.

But who knows, maybe someday
we’ll hold rays of sun in our hands.

Purple Peonies at Dawn

2011-02-01T07:00:00.000-08:00

I run through purple peonies
thrashing my mist-soaked arms,
scattering diamonds to the ecstasy
of the air that sears my nostrils.

I think of nothing, yet am everything.

I am the dawn.
I am the indigo grass;
the shattered ice,
the wide-eyed wind.

To all this I say,
“I am here now!”

And the next moment of my life
writhes like a blue-black serpent
searching for a womb
from which it could be born

from my cautious attention.

What's Up San Diego performance: Villa-Lobos, Valsa Choro

2011-01-29T09:03:00.000-08:00

I found this video lying around and coudldn't resist sharing it. It is from the television interview I did to promote my April 2, 1993 concert in San Diego. The show I was featured on was called "What's Up San Diego." It no longer airs, unfortunately, but I certainly had good time doing the interview. I only play part of the Villa-Lobos' Valsa Choro here, but I like this performance and thought you might too. Enjoy!

Dinner with a Friend

2010-10-07T03:42:00.000-07:00

One of the things I enjoy the most is having a simple meal with a friend. There is just something special about spending several hours in the evening, say over a full-bodied cabernet and some pasta spread out over a white table cloth, eating, drinking, sharing. And there are so many things to share: memories, opinions, emotions, the moment. And that is what is most special, isn't it, sharing the moment? Because the thing that sticks out most in my mind about these get-togethers is the sense that the passage of time and the judgments of others didn't matter. All that was important was that we were there; sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, but always enjoying the company.

The other thing that is special about dinning with friends is that it transcends culture. It doesn't matter where you are in the world, the experience is always warm and transcendent. For instance, when I was living in Japan, I would work very long hours, sometimes ten to fourteen hours a day, so getting away from the office for a meal with a friend was particularly precious. We would talk about work; we would talk about home; we would talk about life. And on the train-ride home I would feel a warm glow and sense of wellbeing that is difficult to describe. Of course the several glasses of wine I had consumed during the evening had something to do with that; a luxury I could afford in Tokyo since I wasn't driving! But still, I always felt a sense of contentment that would linger long into the following day.

The poem below was originally drafted in the autumn of 2001 after a particularly pleasant evening at a Western-style restaurant in the Shibuya district of Tokyo. But it is really about the many meals that I have shared over the years in different cities and countries. In fact, not long ago, I spent another, similarly pleasant evening with an old buddy here in San Diego which inspired me to rewrite it. I hope you enjoy it and can relate. So here goes...

Dinner with a Friend

Once again eleven o’clock comes
around much too soon,
tinkling the glasses and the plates off
to a hot bath and then bed.

All night we laughed, cried, and ate
the bellyaches of the day
away into the pasta that loves the
bread-crumb tablecloth so much.

And the check? It’s been on
our table for over

three hours now.

So many eyes and mouths;

gossip from the corners,
reproach from the apron,
impatience from the kitchen!

all unnoticed.

But what if we could live our
whole lives that way?

In the end when suddenly it’s time to go
and board the last train
home out of this life, we wouldn’t regret
the things we didn’t do or

the things we could’ve said. Instead,
gazing at our reflection
in the black mirror of the train window
we’d smile to ourselves and think,

“That was really beautiful.”

L. Brouwer: 1st movement from Tres Danzas Concertantes

2010-09-27T22:21:00.000-07:00

This one is fun. It's another recording from my senior recital, this time featuring Satoko as my piano accompanist.

D. Buxtehude: Saraband from Suite in e-minor

2010-09-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

Love this piece. It is the sarabande from the same suite as the allemande posted earlier. This is a live performance though - my senior recital in April 1993. (As alwys click on the title to listen)

R.R. Bennett: Impromptu #5

2010-07-07T03:43:00.000-07:00

This is the last clip from the demo that I will share today. It is the last impromptu from the Bennett work.

R.R. Bennett: Impromptu #3

2010-07-07T03:35:00.000-07:00

This is another clip from the same demo. For those of you who don't know the piece, it is part of a work called Five Impromptus. It is an atonal work (serial music actually) so those of you who aren't used to modern music might not understand the piece. But for those of you who like this stuff - Enjoy.

D. Buxtehude: Allemande from Suite in e-minor

2010-07-07T03:13:00.001-07:00

This is a clip from a demo tape I recorded in 1992 at the San Francisco Conservatory of music. If you click on the title it will take you to the web-hosting site that hosts the file. Click on the play button and viola! Enjoy listening.

Woodhaven (Part II): Farewell

2010-07-07T01:52:00.000-07:00

In my last entry I wrote about my first visit to Woodhaven, but in the summer of 2009 I once again visited the Irwin's and passed some time at the cottage in Muskoka. This, my second visit there, was colored by the fact that Mayuko was going to take my daughter, Hana, to Japan directly afterward for an indefinite period of time as Mayuko was moving to Yokohama to live with and take care of her ailing father.

And so it was my first dusk there and I saw the most beautiful sunset I had seen in years. As I said farewell to the sun, I couldn’t help but think of the three difficult partings of this trip: I would say goodbye to Hana, to my friends, and to this little spot of country that I have come to love so much. As has become custom with me, I wrote a poem at the cottage reflecting my feelings that I would like to share. So here goes…

Farewell

The sun bows, slow and easy,
as she leaves the stage of
bays and inlets in tones of
orange, purple, and green.

The sign above the entry
to the cottage says,
“Welcome!” And we were:

boat-rides on the lake;
sunning on the dock;
rhubarb pies for dessert.

But all the while the loons
cry, “Farewell.” And it
is that that rustles
the maples, oaks, and pines

of my mind.

And as I stand the sun
winks out of my life
until we meet again
on the other side

of the world

glorious, childlike, and new.

Hana in the lake

Loons (courtesy of photobucket.com)

(Courtesy of photobucket.com)

Woodhaven (Part I)

2010-07-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that there are some people who were just meant to be your lifelong friends? The first time you meet them you fall in love with them, and even though you might not see them often, every time you meet it is as if you had never been apart. For me two such people are Bill and Marion Irwin.

Bill and Marion were Mayuko's host parents when she was living in Canada as part of a Rotary exchange program in high school. Mayuko only spent a few short months living with the Irwin's, but they kept in touch over the years and even flew all the way to San Diego to attend our wedding in 1994. They have since also become friends of mine.

The Irwin's have a wonderful cottage on Muskoka lake in Ontario that has been part of Bill's family tradition since 1909. The name of the property is Woodhaven. Back in the spring of 1998, just before Mayuko and I moved to Japan, the Irwin's invited us to spend some time there. I remember that we helped them "open up" the cottage for the season. While doing various chores, the most memorable being clearing weeds from the paths leading from the lake to the cottage, I composed a poem. It was a simple piece written with the sole purpose of sharing and preserving a fond memory. The original lies in the guestbook at the cottage, but a little over a year ago I was inspired to rewrite it and would like to share the refined piece below. Here goes...

Woodhaven

I’d never seen the sun having
so much fun,
dazzling its wild dance on the dimpled face
of the late-afternoon lake.

I’d never heard deep tradition
lapping boats tethered,
echoing in the rafters of a water-plane hangar,
nor touched it in a rusted old pocketknife.

I’d never smelled a thunderstorm
passing, wet and electric,
the clackety-clack of the screen door whacking,
while taking refuge inside.

I never knew these things:

how a cool spring breeze
brings relief from the whine of mosquitoes,

or how surprise firecrackers light up, delight up,
the faces of young children

until one May at Woodhaven.

On sheep and wolves

2010-07-05T14:46:00.000-07:00

During my last semester at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music I drove down to San Diego to do a hometown recital. In addition to solo works, the concert featured some ensembles for which I had invited a small group of very talented young musicians. One of these was my piano accompanist and very good friend, Satoko.

The day before the concert, Satoko and I had intended to rehearse, but the morning was so beautiful, fresh, and well, "April," we decided to visit the zoo instead. As we walked easily through the zoo campus, we laughed and talked and didn't do much at all, except watch the animals do what they do, which also seemed to be not much of anything. At one point we passed in front of the enclosure for Ovis aries, more commonly known as sheep.

Satoko knew that the ram, or sheep, was my Chinese zodiac sign and that I had a special fondness for them. We stood and watched them for quite a while, enjoying their artless serenity. While I was looking into their eyes I couldn't help thinking that these poor animals existed in the world almost exclusively as livestock, their fate being to end up as food for wolves and humans, or even in the best case scenario, as producers of the raw stuff of our underclothes. When I mentioned this to Satoko, she laughed, dispelling my sardonic mood. She has since never let me forget this moment, calling me a "sheepy" whenever she gets the chance. (Sometimes I think our respective spouses, Tom and Mayuko, are perplexed by this, but I want to assure them it is all in good fun, so please don't read too much into it!)

The rest of the afternoon passed in what was one of the more pleasant I can remember. And the next evening we rocked the house with Brouwer's "Tres Danzas Concertantes"; admittedly not very sheep-like behavior, but just as the smell of the animal enclosures never quite leaves you as you walk around the zoo, the feeling that the world is separated into predators and prey would waft in and out of my senses for many years. I knew that someday I would write about my more usual sheepish tendencies, so here goes…

Sheep

They wrap around me,
an endless string of

missed opportunities,
the things that might have

been, thousands of tiny
brass bells ringing and

ringing; branding me—
easy meat for the

wolves.

I hate the wolves and their lust for sweet hot flesh.
I hate the wolves and their lack of dangling bells.

A couple of shots of me on a typical day; very "sheepy:"

Me on a not-so-typical day; not so "sheepy:"

Satoko and I rocking the house with Brouwer's Tres Danzas Concertantes

Andrew Hull, Kerry Burgess, and I grooving on Villa-Lobos' Alma Brasileira

Photos of Taraval Street

2010-06-29T16:47:00.001-07:00

The terrible apartment itself as it stands today (center gray building; top floor).

From left to right: Ben Noyes, Kerri Burgess, and Nick Schuller. I am the disembodied arm on the right and Satoko is in the background serving something or other up for us.

From left to right: Delilah, Rachel, and my Mom. This was the party after my senior recital. Notice the fashionable decor. Gotta love that dinning room table set!

Commentary on Taraval Street Trio Sonata

2010-06-29T16:32:00.000-07:00

My last year at the San Francisco Conservatory was full of mixed emotions. Mayuko, who was my girlfriend at the time, had gone back to Japan and our relationship was ambiguous. I was excited about graduating, but at the same time depressed that my time there was coming to an end. And then there was my living situation: the apartment on Taraval Street.

I lived at the time with two other young Conservatory musicians: a cellist by the name of Ben Noyes, and a fellow guitarist by the name of Nick Schuller. Our apartment was a large four-bedroom and it was beautiful and modern. It even had a dishwasher and trash compactor--totally unheard of luxuries in a San Francisco flat at that time. The suite occupied the whole of the third floor of the complex and in the year that we lived there Ben, Nick and I made a lasting impression on the other occupants of the building, mostly due to the antics of Ben and his entourage. Oh, Nick and I participated all right, we were a part of it, but Ben was always the instigator.

Wild, untamable, irascible Ben. Like the iconic cartoon Tasmanian Devil, he would wreak destruction wherever he went. My attempts to keep the place as clean as it deserved were futile. Sometimes he would make me so angry.

But then he would play his cello; and he could play like no one I knew; such passion! After that I would weep and everything would be all right. Ironically, at the end of the year when it was time to clear the apartment out, it was he that spent the long day helping me clean up and taking all of the trash to the city landfill. I always appreciated that, but never got to tell him how much. (Thanks Ben!) After all, we were brothers in song.

But the notorious reputation earned wasn't all Ben's doing. All three of us and our core circle of friends, which included Kurt, Ben's sister, Rachel, Ben's girl, Sari, her friend Janet, Nick's longtime girlfriend, Delilah (to whom he is now married), Kerry, and Matt spent many sleepless nights improvising music and poetry to both classical and rock music. Those were some of the best times of my life, and I am sure that most of the others feel the same.

Although we all had varied repertoires, three pieces from particular composers stuck in my head as representative of our respective styles and personalities. For Ben it was Elgar's cello concerto. Passionate and explosive, it was everything that Ben stood for. Nick was into a lot of different stuff, but I seem to remember him playing Weiss's Tombeau sur la Mort de Mr. Comte d' Logy quite a bit (please correct me if I'm wrong about this, Nick. Memory is a fragile thing after all). In any event, he was the mediator of the group, level-headed and never taking sides. My piece was definitely Buxtehude's Suite in e-minor, a melancholy, but stately piece that matched my relatively snobbish nature.

I would like to add a little note on the structure of the poem for those of you who don't know traditional classical terms. The piece is divided into four sections, or movements as they are called. The first is titled "Allegro," which in Italian means happy or cheerful. An Allegro usually moves at a fairly quick pace and sounds upbeat. The next movement is titled "con fuoco," meaning "with fire." The third is a little more complex in that it starts with an "Adagio passionata," which is a slow tempo played with passion, moves into a melancholy "melonconico" and then into the "religioso." Finally a contemplative Andante; andante means walking pace in Italian and so is not too fast nor too slow.

I also use the terms saraband and ground bass in the body of the poem. A saraband is a slow, stately baroque dance. A ground bass is a bass riff that is repeated many times and acts as the foundation of a piece or section thereof.

(Finally, for completeness and as an afterthought, I add a little note on the fourth bedroom, which was occupied by two different roommates at different times. At the beginning of the year we had a violinist by the name of Sam who took the master bedroom. He ran up phone charges of over $300 and then left for his home country, New Zealand, without any notice whatsoever, leaving us with the bill and an empty room. We had to make up the rent for the vacancy for a long time until it was filled with the flamboyantly gay Brian. Although Brian never really hung out with us, he and I shared a phone and I would have to sometimes field calls from his boyfriends. I was called Queen Victoria by mistake once, which I found more amusing than annoying. In any event, neither stayed on long nor were part of the core group.)

Well, this explanation has gone on longer than I had intended! I hope you enjoyed the poem.

Taraval Street Trio

2010-06-29T16:29:00.000-07:00

Taraval Street Trio Sonata for Cello and Two Guitars
(For Ben and Nick)

Allegro:

That cheap red wine loved the carpet
as much as it did our lips in the
last movements of the night,

when naiveté would splash improvised
refrains in front of the fading embers
of our fireplace.

And during the day, we offered notes
to the evening's lust that burned
our callused fingers with

Elgar, Weiss, and Buxtehude.

Throats sore from smoking and singing,
still we cried and laughed hard, sometimes
just the three of us,

or sometimes with our little entourage,
to the streetcar below grinding its ground bass.
Arms spread wide, we

worshiped the fog and October sun equally,
and naked in spirit, sang our fleeting youth
from the graveled rooftop.

Con fuoco:

And we fought!

How I hated the half-
empty bottles of wine
and the old spaghetti sauce

congealing in the living room;
the unwashed dishes,
the trash never emptied,

the condoms left
in the toilet
that was never cleaned!

And was I any better,
using any excuse
to ridicule and berate?

What young
asses
we were.

But then...

Adagio passionata - meloncónico - religioso:

...the opening to the cello concerto
cried remorse bursting through every room,
eyes closed in open ecstasy.

Cedar, rosewood, and nylon mourned
Messier Comte d' Logy in rising tones,
offering to broker a fragile peace

and I wept freely, strumming
e-minor shame in a slow saraband,
wrapped in repentance accepted again.

Fermata

Our apartment was some
sacred chamber of Apollo's then,
hallowed and pure;

and all was forgiven.

Andante contemplativo:

Afterward we travelled all too quickly
through the years, miles, and paths
that lie between us now:

the musician, the lawyer, and the nurse.

And what else stands between us?
Let us rather forget, and then remember
that we were

sometimes brothers in anger,
sometimes brothers in friendship,
but always,

brothers in song.

25 Random Things About Myself

2010-06-29T05:21:00.000-07:00

In the spring of 2010, when I first joined the ubiquitous Facebook network, I was invited to participate in many activities that were supposed to offer some insight into my personality. Most of these were inane exercises, like the time I participated in the, "What Star Trek Character Are You?" quiz and ended up Sulu. I suppose that being the helmsman instead of the Captain or one of the other leading crew members did say something about me, but what that was I was not sure. Looking back I have to admit there was one exercise, though, called "25 Random Things About Myself," that actually did seem to me a useful vehicle to introduce myself to those who maybe don't know me all that well or perhaps, had known me in the past, but had lost touch with me for some time.

So here I am writing the first entry to my first blog and I am thinking to myself, "How to begin?" Rather than introducing myself with a prosaic bio I thought that I would offer instead a slightly modified version of those little pieces of information I first shared on Facebook in April of 2009. (I had to update a point or two, but the spirit of the original remains.)

Here goes...

1.) I lived in Japan for five years and speak Japanese fairly well.
2.) I love poetry (and just about all arts, music, and literature for that matter).
3.) One of my favorite things to do is to play chess with my daughter.
4.) I started out wanting to be a musician, ended up a brand consultant, and now am a nurse. Where I am going from here, I have no idea.
5.) In classic “Thank You for Smoking” fashion, I spent over a year working on a branding project for a major cigarette brand. I am not proud of this.
6.) I am a practicing Buddhist.
7.) I’m in love with Penelope Cruz. (“Maybe in another life, when we’re cats.”)
8.) I always wanted to live in Europe, but never got the chance. I’m still young though, so…
9.) I have a thing for ethnic food and ethnic women.
10.) I still get chills when I listen to the Angus Dei from Bach’s B-minor Mass even though I’ve listened to it a thousand times.
11.) I sometimes cry when I watch poignant movies by myself. Consequently, I don't often go to see these movies with other people.
12.) I know the words and tunes to half a dozen Mother Goose songs and still sing them from time to time.
13.) I am a guitarist, but don’t particularly like the song “Stairway to Heaven” all that much. This is despite the fact that I am a fairly hearty Led Zeppelin fan and actually know how to play the tune.
14.) I get embarrassed easily and have been told that I blush like a little boy.
15.) I am very often up all night and usually sleep during the day.
16.) I sometimes wish I had been born in an earlier age, but then I think about the fact that they didn’t have pain killers or modern medicine then. That usually sobers me up.
17.) I have bodysurfed with wild dolphins.
18.) I have never skinny-dipped. I regret this.
19.) I am scared of bees.
20.) Although I truly believe I am intelligent, I can never remember any jokes and am not very witty on the fly. I see this as a major flaw.
21.) I have washed and tended a dead body. I think that everyone should have this experience to gain some perspective.
22.) Purple African violets are my favorite flower.
23.) I have helped save several lives and am particularly proud of this.
24.) I do not own an i-phone and still use a flip-top cell phone.
25.) I drove a clutch in San Francisco for four years.