Category Archives: Music

A piece of music has the power to paint its own pictures, just as much as a book or a play or a fable. Sometimes it can create more than a painting or a sculpture; those are set and stationary, whereas music is more malleable in its images. Such is the case with this magnificent work by Kayhan Kalhor – ‘Blue As The Turquoise Night of Neyshabur’ – here performed by Yo-Yo Ma and The Silk Road Ensemble. The stories that may be spun from hearing it run through the mind along myriad paths, each one slightly different, taking new turns and twists depending on the listener. It begins in a calm if slightly mysterious and tense tone, before gradually unfurling into a rollicking adventure. 

Maybe it’s a love story, with all the tumult and passion of a first kiss. Maybe it’s a realization – a mystery slowly solved over the course of its fifteen minutes. Maybe it’s a journey, a trip we have taken to a new place, a new city, a new country. Maybe it’s a party, from the anticipatory preparation through the tense starting minutes to the bombastic climax when all the guests have assembled and the state of happy camaraderie crests in loud laughter and the majesty of merriment. 

Listening to this on a dark January night when all that lay ahead were more dark January nights, I felt the gentle and insistent tug of art and beauty, the tantalizing wisp of imagination and inspiration, the call of some distant muse or siren. It was a tempting invitation to travel from the comforts of a conversation couch to any number of far-off lands and worlds. Why limit our experiences to what we can physically achieve when the body is so bound by time and place?

And so I listen to this piece of music, not looking up its genesis or background, not wanting to be influenced or nudged into something for the first few times I experience it. I want it to make its own way, choose its own adventure, conjure its own castles of creation. Make its own memory from a pile of mental rubble. My wrists ache, my knees are sore, my eyes are failing by the minute – the body begins the downward slope. The brain, such as it ever was, remains mostly intact – and the imagination, my one shining strength in a world of largely unimaginative comrades, is still sharply honed. It’s kept me going for all these 47 years, and it pushes me forward on this turquoise night, when I hear music that makes me feel like I can fly… 

The sky clock ticked to an early descent of darkness. Late December worked like that. In the air hung the threat of snow and burial – a promise of peace and disappearance. 

The first burn of love gets a bad rap. Like the first anything, it’s not always as bad as we make it out to be. At least, that’s what I told myself. If it was a lie, it was a lie of protection, of self-preservation. It was a lie to save a life. The burns that came after were more intense, more cutting, more dangerous. Far from making me stronger, that first burn merely revealed what the pain was like; subsequent injuries would not be lessened by any sort of numbing effect – they would mount and multiply and murder more than once. “That which does not kill you doesn’t necessarily make you stronger – it just nearly kills you,” or something like that. And in our weakened state, when the heart wants what it wants, we do foolish things. If we happen to be the object of desire, we often act just as foolishly – sometimes more-so, true power being afforded so rarely in life. And being so admired places one squarely in a position of power, whether admitted, acknowledged, or ignored. True power stems largely from love. But we’re not supposed to say such things. That would eliminate the sentiment of it. That would extract the magic. That would mean we’re all mostly hollow.

LOVE IS A BURNING THING

AND IT MAKES A FIERY RING

BOUND BY WILD DESIRE

I FELL INTO A RING OF FIRE

Victims of love get more play than victors. Their story… ok, our story, is usually more exciting – and certainly more interesting unless you’re one of the parties involved. When I think back to some of my earlier adventures in romance, particularly the unrequited kind (and of those there were many) my mind recoils in a mixture of horror, hilarity, and hubris. How one young man could be so hysterically stupid and at the same time so full of himself still boggles my mind – and somehow I knew exactly what I was doing, even as I knew I shouldn’t be doing it. Self-awareness doesn’t necessarily equate to self-understanding. Only in the understanding of motive and impetus does one find healing and the ability to truly let go and move on. I could not know that then, and so I burned…

I FELL INTO A BURNING RING OF FIRE

I WENT DOWN, DOWN, DOWN

AND THE FLAMES WENT HIGHER

AND IT BURNS, BURNS, BURNS

THE RING OF FIRE… THE RING OF FIRE

Burning demands more of a soundtrack than the typical crackling of a quaint fireplace. A true burn must roar, consuming all the oxygen in its path. It should be the sound of suffocation. Utter annihilation. Or in the case of this song, whereby the burn is mostly silent, the sound of something evil. 

The music here begins in slow, deliberately diabolical fashion. Sinister elegance. Innocent love song taken to a level of denigration and denial. Aural defiance. From the wreckage comes the wrecker ~ wreaker of havoc and destroyer of innocence ~ and when survival becomes the offense, the surest way of saving the heart is to go on the attack. Reverse the hunt. 

It’s music that begins insidiously – start it again and listen to the beginning. It doesn’t bash you over the head, it doesn’t instantly demand submission. I’ve tried that, and very rarely did it work; when it did, it never ensnared anyone worth ensnaring. No, this version of the song starts off slowly. It is an entrance of dramatic import – the kind of entrance that someone earns from a life of loving the hard way. It is the entrance of a poet and an arsonist ~ the entrance of someone who’s learned how to burn. 

THE TASTE OF LOVE IS SWEET

WHEN HEARTS LIKE OURS MEET

I FELL FOR YOU LIKE A CHILD

OH, BUT THE FIRE WENT WILD

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by fire. I’d play with matches and magnifying glasses, burning spent pine needles and following their hisses and little explosions. Some say it’s an early sign of serial killers or psychotics. I’d watch the trails of smoke left by discarded cigarettes in the ashtray at the entrance to OTB, when Dad would bring my brother and me there when Mom was at night school. Entranced by the way the smoke curled and dissipated, we’d go home reeking of it on our clothes and hair.

Candles held an allure that was as frightening as it was beautiful – and I still remember the shiver of dread I felt when the electricity was out one night, and we were sitting in the family room in candlelight. My brother shifted the table so that one of the candles started to fall off. Not knowing a thing about fire, I jumped up and grabbed it, certain that had it hit the carpet the whole house would have gone up in a split second, devouring all of us before we could even attempt to flee. Such was my misunderstanding of how fire worked.

A similar misunderstanding occurred when I fell in love the first few times. I always thought it was going to be forever, and I always thought it was going to be easy and perfect. If it involved bending or changing or compromise of any kind, it wasn’t to be. I ended a couple of romances that way. More often than not, however, others ended them for me. And a few times, others wouldn’t even let the spark start a fire. 

But oh how I could strike that spark…

I FELL INTO A BURNING RING OF FIRE

I WENT DOWN, DOWN, DOWN

AND THE FLAMES WENT HIGHER

AND IT BURNS, BURNS, BURNS

THE RING OF FIRE… THE RING OF FIRE

The longest night of the year is now behind us, which only brings us to the second-longest night of the year, and so the long tunnel of winter stretches forward, elongating and disappearing into seemingly-endless darkness. In some ways we are at the bottom of the year – the ground level from which we can only rise and find light. To make it more bearable, we shift to the spirit of hygge here, something that will last beyond Christmas and New Year’s Eve, filling this corner of the internet with cozy warmth and sparkling comfort. 

A bouquet of fresh greens to remind of a spring and summer to come. 

A collection of candles lending soft light and gentle warmth to a chilly space. 

A fuzzy blanket, wrapped around the shoulders and brought room to room.

A stark and sparse expanse of a whitewashed room, stunning in simplicity and grace, small and infinite at once. 

Little earthly delights that hint at the sparkle of other worlds, where meaning might be found in the breathtaking font of companionship, in the shared experience of something that could be called heartwarming. This is how we navigate the winter – a winter that’s only just begun, a winter that holds most of its darkness in the days ahead, when the light of Christmas fades, and the freshness of a New Year all too quickly dissipates. 

Christmas songs are an eclectic group. These days I go for those that bring a sense of calm imbued with some underlying joy. More ‘Coventry Carol’ than ‘Jingle Bells’, more ‘Christmas Waltz’ than ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’. The older I get, the more peace I want. Christmas chaos is for the children, and let them enjoy all the craziness. Give me the calm and the quiet and all the silent nights. 

Or this mash-up of ‘Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella’ and ‘I Saw Three Ships’. Torches and boats – what could be more Christmassy than that?

Such music lends a crystalline clarity to the day at hand – and a Christmas morning that sparkles with snow and sunlight is a magical day indeed.  

It’s a little after ten o’clock on the longest night of the year.

If I had any sense I wouldn’t be writing like this, not when the world is so moody, not when the darkness is so pervasive. 

Yet here I sit, somewhat cozily ensconced in the attic amid a few trees lit with Christmas lights, and a universe securely planted on the wings of a fairy, to paraphrase Fitzgerald. 

A piano song entitled ‘Winter Solstice’ provides the only sound to accompany my typing. Loneliness resounding, echoing more loneliness. Andy rests on the border of sleep and wake right below me, and I hear the muffled drone of the television as he deals with another migraine. 

Drawn to the window, and the blackness of this never-ending night, I pull it open, then lift the screen as well. Leaning out into the night air, I breathe it in – something between smoky and chalky, something filled with the tiniest crystals of frozen water, something that comes out of me in a trail of water vapor barely lit by the distant lamp of a neighbor’s home across the street. 

On this winter solstice, I seek a certain solace that I’d like to share, though I fear that’s not coming across, and I’m lost in fragmented sentences, and thoughts that don’t quite coalesce into meaning. This isn’t the part of the process I usually reveal. It’s easier to hide behind distractions than be honest about such things. And oh what distractions I have conjured over the years – the pomp and pizzazz, the flamboyance and frivolity, the masks and the imagined majesty – and oh how tired it all makes me feel tonight. 

Perhaps, and quite hopefully, this is merely the passing whim of the first day of winter, wreaking its desolate emotional havoc, warning that the holidays are not to be had without extracting a certain payment – the cost of happiness. 

Shutting the window, I curl into myself on the bed, dragging a thick blanket over my legs and surveying the room from this prone and somewhat defeated position. The day has had its way, even with its smallness, and I’m tired. 

It is now 10:35. Time to stop this post. Time to shut down for the night. 

This used to be one of the biggest party nights of the year. It kicked off the holiday season, and we always spent it in our friend Bob’s apartment overlooking Washington Park, where his gregarious collection of friends and relatives provided a happy and convivial atmosphere for good times to come. For many years, this was our tradition, and when Bob moved I begged and pleaded for him to keep it going, which he did for a bit, but eventually he got out of the party game – a trendsetter for the dying tradition. 

At first I missed them – the parties, and the people, and the chance to reconvene just as the most wonderful time of the year was getting started. It was a tradition that had become comfortable, that allowed for a brief bit of drinking and debauchery to varying degrees, which we would then feed and quell the next day at Thanksgiving dinner. 

After a few years, however, I understood Bob’s giving up the party ghost. It was a lot, and I can’t imagine being saddled with the clean-up following a party on a day like Thanksgiving. Tonight, I remember those days, and I celebrate the traditions we have now.

For instance, today I made the traditional candied yams, as well as this new pumpkin tres leches cake, and a couple of dips for appetizers. Andy made a last-minute supermarket run, and then we were both in for the night by 8 PM. We watched a bit of the ‘A Christmas Story’ and now I find myself writing this good-night post in the attic while the light of a few candles flickers cozily nearby.

Twenty years ago, we’d just be arriving at the party at such an hour, the chill of the evening only partly kept at bay by whatever fanciful coat I found to display. Now I’ve traded in my velvet jacket for a sleeveless sweatshirt and shorts, and it’s a trade-off that feels surprisingly good. 

For all you revelers still carrying the torch, party on friends – be safe, be yourself, and be sure to enjoy every moment. 

Before we dive into the maelstrom of the holidays, let’s have this moment of calm – and let’s see if we can return to it whenever the season threatens to overwhelm. The music of Phillip Glass often provides a mesmerizing opportunity in meditation, his notes flowing like water, spilling over one another in gorgeous wave upon wave, rushing and then slowing the way a stream does depending on rain and snow melt. It is music for contemplation, music with which to pause and breathe. 

Once tomorrow arrives, there is no turning back – it will be the high holiday season, and the rush of that rollercoaster to Christmas will bring us down that first steep track with a whoosh. The chain reaction of holiday magic will be set into motion, and there will be scant few moments in which to find true peace and comfort. That seems the antithesis of how this season came into being, and so I will strive to find a way to honor its humble and more meaningful origins. It begins with a post like this, and a quiet morning with just a little piano music to ease into the day.