havana, cuba

the nickname of my room, which feels, on a good night, like the tropics - at least 10º warmer than the rest of my apartment, due mainly to the fact that i keep my door shut at all times for fear of clay, our black cat, or rather for fear of his hair all over my things.

new york is so cold my face hurts. the wind is raw, uncompromising: winter is here to stay, friends. snuggle up and hold tight.

i have fought (mostly on the phone) the last few days as a patient advocate for myself. pharmacies can be frighteningly against the welfare of their patients. my conclusion: duane reade is the devil. meditate on this next time you swing by to nab a new prescription...

2010 is fast approaching; what will be in store? on my docket are a solid translation of goethe's faust and jonathan harvey's nataraja (for flute doubling piccolo and piano) whilst training to tutor for 826nyc, dave eggers' outfit in the back vault of the brooklyn superhero supply.

and so it goes, it goes.

fresh

i've met the merry band of musicking kids with the newly minted juilliard historical performance program, and i must say i'm impressed. they played a concert at paul hall last week to a nearly full house...i am in love, so much love, with telemann's paris flute quartet. adriane post (fiddle) and andrew arceci (gamba) were formidable. i look forward to increasingly daring programming and devilish music that tragically isn't heard enough in new york city.

saturday saw me between libraries (NYPL and BK central branch) dropping off scores and picking up an armful of fiction in the dying afternoon light of grand army plaza.

sunday i shopped, oh did i shop, for a few christmas presents down in the 'hood of dave eggers' adorable brooklyn superhero supply company. a can of intelligence for the office party, a copy of eggers' wild things book for lukas, a long brown corduroy jacket that fits me like a glove. it rained and rained and rained...

...and after produce at russman's i booked it to (le) poisson rouge for a hilarious show by the ensemble acjw, ever full of surprises. the nightclub setting ultimately worked in their favor - stockhausen's tierkreis swung and jostled everyone's waltzing heartstrings; luciano berio's oboe sequenza and it's ever-present b natural was evocatively spun by heartthrob and rock star james austin smith; jon deak's b.b. wolf, rendered expertly by memory by bassist evan premo in a wolf hat and tail, bemoaned the discriminatory literary tropes of the lupin creature (tango and blues, amigos...with howling); biber's sonata representativa - owen dalby, violin, with supporting cast - evoked all kinds of animals while adhering fast to the conventions of 16th century counterpoint; davidovsky's synchronisms no. 9 for solo violin - yonah zur - weaved and spun itself around the electronic sounds, which to me evoked a wind, rather than a stringed, instrument; finally, daníel bjarnason's bow to string, originally for solo cello plus a lot of prerecorded cellos and arranged especially for the ensemble for the evening's performance, proved haunting and delectable. i'd like to hear more from this guy.

and so, it seems, i am taken by this ensemble. at least in concept. with that, i leave you, fair readers (however few), to cook.

dithering, dabbling

this weekend, i returned to the brooklyn public library (grand army plaza) to return apollinaire caligrammes, iris murdoch's the black prince, peter høeg's the woman and the ape (pure genius) and italo calvino's under the jaguar sun for works by janet frame and reine maria rilke, among others.

i caught a few concerts of note:

• bang on a can all-stars and trio mediæval gave quite a performance of julia wolfe's steel hammer at zankel on saturday evening, which reminded me simultaneously-at once-of a mix between louis andriessen, arvo pärt and aaron copland. haunting open harmonies, playful intertweaving of americana and tall tale. for one guy up in the mezz with me, it was too much - he stalked out, throwing down his program about 30 minutes through.
• the latter half of ensemble acjw's turn of schubert, curated by the genial alfred brendel, who i caught at age 13 in cheltenham, england, giving his last round of performances of the complete cycle of beethoven piano concertos with the london symphony. the "notturno" piano trio was particularly stellar: i was floating, transfixed, without a sense of the moment. the concert closed with the effervescent "shepherd on the rock" (for soprano, clarinet, and piano), handled masterfully by 3 delightful young performers.

i met up with the venerable composatrice zosha di castri to share thoughts about my MSM audition, among other projects. on the docket: jonathan harvey's nataraja, a light sonata by michel blavet, and a piece for flute alone...

joining the ranks

my pace is set now: up at 7 a.m., struggling in the dark, showering blindly, drapes closed; dressing in the clothes and jewelry i'd picked out the night before; cereal and milk + a shot of orange juice; 5 minute walk to the train; picking up the W at 8:30; out at carnegie by 9:15; in the office by 9:20; solid work day with an hour's lunch, dreaming within the pages of tana french's in the woods, accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich; out on the street at 5:30; W to the R; C-town for last-minute groceries; home. bam. monday to friday, sold.

the c.e.o. of the place where i work, in one word: inspiration.

soon, amigos.

syllables

i take solace in words. unlike most i do not imagine the goins-on of a book cinematically; rather, the words flow over me like a hot shower. language - the sound and the weight of it - has long transfixed me. the exquisite translations of pablo neruda's poetry and amos oz's the same sea are gems in my ever-expanding, resplendent literary closet.

currently: the pulitzer prize-winning amazing adventures of kavalier&clay by the effervescent michael chabon of wonder boys fame; i have dipped my toe in james r. gaines' evening in the palace of reason and am intrigued.

we survive in installations, between moments, amongst one another and yet quite alone.

in a few weeks, i will toast the new york sunset on a park slope roof, smiling slightly in the face of a stranger who is my roommate. i will get a public library card, walk the streets to get a sense of place, join the ranks of brooklyn-manhattan rush hour commuters. i will thrive.

shout

• margaret (M) and her discourses on the occasion of humanity;
• B: a guiding light for we stray sheep.
  

new york was productive. heartening. i had a few job interviews. being across the street from carnegie hall, catching a few performances here and there, dreaming of being backstage, ready for my close-up...

i missed nick's show at the stone, as well as talea's joue of stockhausen's kontakte (anthony cheung, piano and alex lipowski, percusson).

i identify the ride from new york to b-more with fried chicken, biscuits, baked beans, and (a new addition) chocolate milk.

now, to the grindstone, of sorts. making decisions about auditions, repertoire, strategizing for the imminent. perhaps an october weekend in montréal with natalie carducci in tow?

in search of:

an inspiration. a sign. a bolt of lightning. my late-night interest in david copperfield wanes; amos oz's the same sea waits on my deep yellow shag carpet, untouched.

shortly, i will away to new york, stay with charmaine uptown, work for the league for a few days, visit old friends up at purchase, lay down a few funky flute sounds for marc wolf, and on my way out miss nick's solo stone gig.

newly minted: my own fancy flash website. (in progress)

discovery: the very cool, sparse yet rich art+culture site.