Rants, Raves and Reflections from the mind of a musician.



The mechanized whir of a slow moving escalator belt - punctuated wth percussive clicks and shrieks of squealing metal - plays an odd metered rhythm that my mind can't quite grasp. I slow my breathing and lean in to listen more intently, my fingers tap reflexively, my neck moves involuntarily. I feel myself rocking back and forth as the machines play their vamp -- seemingly monotonous and unending. As I stride, I try clumsily to step in sync with the rhythm of these moving parts. I fumble until I realize that one step must be made shorter than the others in order to keep time. Without mercy, the rhythm dictates how my body must react. I discover that the meter isn't "odd" at all - it is just uneven: a beautiful, broken, uneven shape. Each time it cycles around, I admire its beauty more and more.


More than once, I ask myself "Who built this?"




I had a dream last night. I called home to speak to Mom, and we chatted for a good long while. In her benedictory way, she told me she loved me and she would always be praying for me, and then she asked "Do you want to speak to your father?" "Of course!" I replied, excitedly.  Upon hearing my own voice, I realized it was much higher in pitch; the voice of a child. With a smile, she whispered "I'll go get him for you." 

Then she called his name, the same way she always did; the way she'd call him to the front door when the guests arrived, or to the dinner table, or to announce her arrival home from church or from work. I could practically hear the sound bouncing from the walls. "Mike...Mike....Miiiiike..." she bellowed. She must have called out to him a dozen times. 

All the while -- I waited and I waited -- he never came to the phone. 

I just remember thinking to myself "I hope he's okay. I hope he's okay. I hope he's okay."




 It's a beautiful evening in Cologne, Germany.  I'm looking at the clock as I write: it reads 1015PM. 

The days are getting longer so it's not quite pitch black outside; there's still some blue ink swimming in the skyline. My window is cracked and I can hear the cars surfing by on the highway outside and there's just enough breeze whispering through the drape.  

My hotel room is modest: two double beds pushed together for queen-sized effect. I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep tonight. The road is exhausting. 

I took a walk earlier today from my hotel to the center of town. The city center orbits a magnificent cathedral. The story goes that during WWII, most of Cologne got absolutely destroyed except for this cathedral -- as if it were divinely protected. 

Last time I was here, I took a picture of the cathedral at night.  


All for now...



FROM HERE - interlude


From here, the sound of galvanized rubber on wet asphalt washes like ocean waves, and a freight train purrs in the distance. Wind makes chimes sing softly while water drips. A soft purple sky overhead is interrupted by the lights of an airplane, while the roar of its engine cuts gently through the clouds. 

From here, there is only the sound of three clocks dancing out of sync against the soft purr of electric current, as this brick and wooden house, and all within its walls, sleep. 

From here, there is only the memory of her face. She is there and I am here. I am alone. 

It's in these moments that my heart fills. I feel that it might burst and that tears might spill from my eyes. Compulsively I reach forward, staring into the face of the woman I am imagining and feeling the keys beneath my fingertips, I press.