What A Mind Looks Like

A few years ago I saw an unremarkable movie called Dreamcatcher. It's based on an unremarkable book by Stephen King (I love some of King's books; this one was okay--not great, but okay). The one thing about the film that really stuck with me, though, is the representation of a particular character's mind.In the course of the film, this character--Jonesy--is invaded by an alien parasite. The alien wants to find out specific information from this character and reads his mind. But Jonesy's mind is like a warehouse with file cabinets, and he is able to hide the "file" the alien is looking for. The scenes in the mind were my favorite and they got me to thinking about what the inside of my mind might look like.

I can tell you this: it's probably sloppy. Sloppy, but organized. I have a system, but only I know how it works. I'm thinking that it's like the attic of an old house. Some slats in the roof are missing, so a decent amount of light streams in, but there are plenty of dark, dusty corners too. I'm guessing that there are probably file cabinets in there, you know, to keep the facts straight. I imagine a file cabinet full of all the stuff I learned in elementary school. I have a file for the times tables, a file for all the religious stuff I learned in Catholic schools like Holy Days of Obligation, the Seven Sacraments, the Seven Deadly Sins, etc. There's a file full of mathematical formulas like the Pythagorean theorem, BaseXRate=Part, the quadratic equation (I can't see that last one real well. I think this part of the attic has water damage).

In a brighter corner, there's a big basket full of songs. It's not organized in any way, but everything is easily accessible. I imagine that each song looks like an Atari cartridge, and that each day, a different cartridge gets shuffled into the song player. There is always music playing in my head. My mind's ear is a high-tech piece of equipment. It plays my mind's soundtrack, which is probably the most interesting thing about my mind. Bits of remembered conversations, movie lines, song clips, and things I want to say (or didn't say), all vie for air space. And my mind's ear has the ability to play back lots of different kinds of things on command. Everything from entire musicals to my mother's voice to the sounds of different instruments to the part of Family Guy that made me laugh last night. The mind's ear helps me remember things and allows me to do voices and impressions. It's probably the best-kept part of my brain.

There's a dusty screen up there that acts as my mind's eye. It's not that great a set-up. It works, but it's not very detailed. It's pretty good with faces, but not that great with locations. In fact, the channel that supplies me with information on how to get places is pretty much out all the time. I think squirrels chewed through the cable.

Then there's the stuff I use every day. I imagine that this stuff is in tote bags hanging on pegs. In real life, I keep my life organized by having different bags for different things. I have a bag for work, a bag for church choir, a bag for tutoring jobs, a bag for the radio show. When I'm leaving the house, I choose the bag(s) I will need for the day and take them with me. In each bag are the important objects, information, and books I need for each job. Inside my mind, I imagine that all of the facts and skills I need for a certain task are in the tote bag for that task. The teaching tote bag, for example, has musical facts, anecdotes, classroom management skills, ideas for projects and homeworks, mnemonic devices, and a buttload of patience.

Finally, and most importantly, are the organ-grinder's monkey and the Tinkerbell-ish fairy. My mind isn't a still-life. It's full of activity. The monkey runs around and pulls files out of cabinets. He overturns the music basket, pulls the tote bags off their pegs and generally causes a ruckus. He makes me funny. He makes me say random things. He shows me a funny cartoon that causes me to laugh out loud in the supermarket. The fairy, on the other hand, makes me creative. She flies around the attic, looking at different things, finding ways to make new things out of them. She helps me turn ideas into stories. She's the one who suggested I write this blog about the inside of my mind. She sprinkles fairy dust on ordinary stuff, turning it magic.

What is your mind like? Think about it. Take a picture of it. Is it an attic or a basement? A wide open field or a small room? Is it light or dark? Does it look just like your desktop wallpaper? Or your screensaver? Is it a place that you avoid? Or the most comfortable place in your life. My mind may be dusty and cluttered, and it may have a slightly hyper monkey running around in it, and weird music playing 24/7, but it is the finest palace imaginable.

The 15 Commandments

I was waiting for someone on Saturday, and whilst waiting I was reading a story in the New Yorker about Zappos. You know, the shoe company. Zappos has a really intricate customer service policy and a pretty neat mission statement. Well, even though I've done mission statements in the past (they're great for a bulletin board!), I was inspired to think up some rules for myself. You might find some of them useful too. Call them my 15 Commandments. Because sometimes, 10 just isn't enough.

1. Visit New York at least once a year.

NY is where my family lives, so this one means go and connect with family. Remember who you are and where you came from. Also, drink and laugh with the people who made you.

2. Talk to family at least once a week.

No matter where I am in the world, no matter what I'm doing, it's a good idea to talk to parents, sister, or grandmothers. Which reminds me, I forgot to call my grandmas yesterday. Must do it today.

3. Don't lose sleep for work.

Work will be there in the morning. It's better to call it a night and start fresh in the morning than lose a night's sleep over work. Losing sleep is not healthy for me, and the repercussions last longer than a single night. Besides, sleep is where I'm a Viking.

4. Be open to new ideas.

I don't want to be one of those set-in-her-ways people. I reserve the right to reject an idea after I've given it some thought, but being open to new ideas, things, and people is definitely a good plan.

5. Don't be afraid to let old ideas go.

If it ain't working, get rid of it. It's better to admit that it's wrong than to waste time and energy trying to make it right. You can waste a lot of time, energy, money, etc. on such things. Believe me, I know.

6. Be truthful whenever possible.

This is a new one for me. I'm not saying I'm a liar, but it has in the past been my modus operandi to say I'm ok when I'm not, or to agree to something when I wasn't 100% convinced. I'm trying to be more truthful about my feelings and opinions, especially with loved ones. I'm pretty honest at work. It's just in the social life where I roll with the punches maybe a bit too often.

7. Make time for a friend.

I originally wrote "Make time for a meal with a friend" because nothing is better than sitting down to breakfast, lunch, or dinner with someone you love. Catching up is important and it's worth the time. Sure, you can grab lunch in 15 minutes at a drive through, but do you get to reminisce about that time we did that crazy thing? Do you get to drink a glass of wine? Do you get to laugh? I changed it to "Make time for a friend" because some of my friends live far away and a meal is pretty impossible. But I can make a phone date and catch up.

8. Write as often as possible.

For me, this is hard because writing takes a backseat to my other jobs. I do it when everything else is done. And guess what, everything else never gets done. So I just have to prioritize. Blogging every week seems to help this so at the very least, I'll do that.

9. Focus your energy on important tasks.

I am a laser beam sometimes. When I was writing my dissertation, I was a laser beam. I was focused and disciplined, and it was one of the most productive times in my life. I don't always find this focus nowadays. My energy is diffused in too many directions, but I plan to streamline a little bit so I can get some of that focus back.

10. Keep a journal.

Absolutely essential for me. Keeps me honest with myself. Should only be published after my death. And the deaths of everyone that's in it.

11. Be kind and fair.

Probably the thing I find the easiest to do.

12. Allow yourself a break now and then.

Probably the thing I find most difficult. It's like I have two settings: I'm either productive, getting stuff done, or I'm lazy and useless. There's only a sliver of ground between these now. It's a challenge to turn the computer off and stop working. It's hard for me to just sit, but I've been cultivating mindfulness, and it's been miraculous. If only I could just do it more often.

13. Visit at least one new place a year.

It's a big planet, and I haven't even seen the pyramids yet. I've gone a lot of places so far, but I think that it's a good idea to aim for a new destination every year. Ireland, Amsterdam, hell, I've never been to Chicago. The experience is always going to be worth the time and the money.

14. Be generous with your time and talent, but save some for yourself.

You can give so much away that you become empty, but only if you don't take care of yourself. I have to keep enriching myself and feeding myself so that there's always something to share. If I do that, I'll never run out.

15. Use anger as a fuel, not a weapon.

You're pissed off, right? Annoyed at something? Let it spur you to action. Let it be the combustion that drives your engine. Do something about it. Or just do something. Go for a run, start a campaign, talk it out with someone, vote, blog, rescue a kitten, donate some money, draw a picture, organize a committee, write a letter, seek out a hug, cry and then dry your tears and think of something you can do about it. For God's sake, don't yell at people, hit anyone, drive unsafely, destroy inanimate objects, waste time with blame, or just let it seethe. Anger is powerful so USE it to light up a city.

And a bonus one:

Laugh.

At most things. At things that are overly serious. At the driver who's making you late. At the way things appear to be falling apart. At yourself. In the grand scheme of things, it'll probably be okay. So take a step back and see the ridiculousness. You'll live longer.

3-2-1 Contact!

I found chemistry and physics impenetrable subjects in high school. In college, I stuck close to medical anthropology and left bio, chem, physics, and astronomy to the science heads. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested. In fact, I'm a big fan of science shows on TV. Nova, The Universe, Planet Earth, How It's Made, Mythbusters, are always welcome on my TV, but my love of all those shows started with a program that aired when I was a child. It all started with 3-2-1 Contact.

3-2-1 Contact aired on PBS in the 1980s. Every week had a theme like food or gravity or computers (laughable in the 80s). At the beginning of its run, 3-2-1 Contact episodes featured vignettes with three college-aged buddies: Marc, Trini, and Lisa who would perform science experiments at their hangout and sometimes go out and visit scientific places. Trini went to a lab with an electron microscope, Lisa got to take an enviable hot air balloon ride, Marc went to a speech therapy lab. They panned for gold. They helped out a glass-blower. It was awesome.

At the end of episodes, there would be an episode of the Bloodhound Gang--a filmed multi-day mystery that could be solved using such science-y things as a pinhole camera or disappearing ink. One mystery hinged on finding out what kind of wood does not float (hint: it's ironwood). Also, the Bloodhound Gang had an awesome theme song that I will be happy to sing on request. Oh! One more thing! The kids who called themselves Bloodhound Gang (Vicki was their leader) worked for the never-seen Mr. Bloodhound. When the phone rang, one of the kids would answer, "Whenever there's trouble, we're there on the double. Mr. Bloodhound isn't here."

Have I mentioned that I LOVED this show??

As the years went by, Marc, Trini, and Lisa (and their hangout) were replaced. The new kids sometimes hung out at a diner. They still visited labs, doctors' offices, and observatories, but the weekly themes got more ambitious. In fact, one week-long theme took 3-2-1 Contact to Antarctica. We got to see a penguin rookery (where I learned the work "rookery") and saw some of the scientific research done at the South Pole. The kids would invariably have a "friend" in the place where they visited--a friend who would take them around, translate, and show them everything they needed to know. This spawned a joke between a friend and me when, many moons ago, my friend Michele planned a Chinese New Year party. In order to obtain authentic food and treats for the party, we went shopping in NYC's Chinatown. Among the signs written only in Chinese characters, we were at a loss as to where to go, or even what shops would have what we needed. I can't remember who said the following, but I suspect it was me. "You know what we need?" one of us said, "we need to suddenly meet up with out friend Ling who will take us to all the right places." Sadly, Ling never materialized, but a store selling pork buns was discovered, and the party ended up being great.

When the "new" 3-2-1 Contact was on, I was probably about 12 or so. It was a spongy age. I watched those shows and absorbed everything. I didn't know it was happening. I just knew I loved the show. Oh, I wish I had had a DVR back then! I subscribed to 3-2-1 Contact Magazine for far longer than I probably should have. (I was old.) One week featured a series of shows that was a particular favorite. It was a series on Malaysia. At the time, I wondered if I'd ever make it halfway across the world to this fascinating place. Well, crazily enough, I got to go this summer. I didn't get to see a native Malaysian forge a Kris dagger (like I did on the show), but I did get to see Malaysia's oldest rubber tree.

The strange fact is that this little show had a huge effect on me. I still think about it a lot, about the time Trini made a boat out of clay, or the time Marc got to put numbers on bees and watch them do their wiggle dance, or the time we learned how much stuff someone at the South Pole has to wear to keep warm. And every damn time I see a hot air balloon, I think of Lisa getting to take that magical trip. I didn't end up a scientist, but I did end up curious about everything, which is, I suppose, is even better than knowing everything.

Back to Work

I can't believe it's been more than two months since I last posted. In my defense, a lot has been going on, including--but not limited to--a new niece, a conference in Malaysia, and a visit home. But it's time to get into the lovely comfortable routine of Back-to-School (and that also means getting back into the Blog-A-Week thing). I'm actually looking forward to a little bit of routine because I've spent the last two months in constant motion, and it'll be a relief to go to the same place every day for a while. Besides that, I like my job a lot and that's what this particular blog entry is all about. I actually wrote the following while in Malaysia, but this is the first opportunity I've had to type it here.

Almost every job has some sort of hidden perk. I say 'almost' because there's just nothing redeeming about a telemarketing. Boring jobs, for instance, can be great for catching up on crossword puzzles. Einstein's boring job at the patent office allowed him a lot of time to conduct what he called "thought experiments." Lovers of post-it notes, file folders, and paper clips (you know who you are) may have office jobs where such things are available for pilfering. Any job can offer such unadvertised benefits as free ill-gotten photocopies or even mortgage incentives from the company credit union. But the hidden perks are not the kinds of things that come up in the final interview. They are the kinds of things that you only find out about on the job.

I have been constantly surprised at the hidden perks at my job. The unconcealed perks are quite good too: wonderful supportive colleagues, amazing students, an office of my own, a steady paycheck, medical and dental insurance, a parking spot, and vision coverage that allows me a new pair of glasses every two years. As I start my fourth year as a full-timer, what I've noticed is that the hidden perks were also completely unexpected. 

Being a music teacher--specifically a teacher of voice--I am there at the beginning of musical careers, and therefore involved in a bustling music scene. Sometimes I get to participate in musical events. One of my former students is a songwriter, and he asked me to sing back-up on some of his songs. With him, I've had the chance to play gigs in cool little clubs and bars, something I've always wanted to do. I'm getting my chance now, and I never expected that. How fun is that?

For the last two years, one of my standard assignments has been a CD review. It's designed to get my voice students to think and write critically about their vocal models. The unexpected consequence is  that I learn about musicians I might never know otherwise. Some of my discoveries have been new and cutting edge acts, and some have been composers and performers of the past. My students have introduced me to Susannah McCorkle, Tegan and Sara, the Pharcyde, Mindless Self Indulgence, the Bloodhound Gang, and Blossom Dearie, among others. For the presence of this new music in my life, I am eternally grateful.

Finally, my job allows me to meet a hundred new people every semester. The majority of those folks come and go, but every once in a while I'll make a friendly connection with a student that lasts after the class is over, and maybe even after they've moved on to another school or another opportunity. I've made three or four really good friends over the last couple of years. Believe me, it's not something I expected. I certainly expected to make friends with my colleagues--and I have, but I never imagined that I would meet some of my closest buddies for the first time by calling their name on the roll sheet. But that's what's so delightful about it.

The unexpected things are sometimes the most fun. My job may be difficult, and teachers these days may have to do a lot with a little, but the hidden perks of the job make it more than worthwhile. After all, there's no supply closet at work; I have to buy my own post-it notes. But that's okay because I've got rhythm, I've got music, and I've got my friends. Who could ask for anything more?

The Key That Opens Many Doors

Here's my New Yorker resume:

I was born in Long Island Jewish Hospital in 1974. I grew up in Queens, and spent every Sunday of my early childhood in Greenwich Village at my grandparents' apartment. When I was 18 years old, I moved into the Hunter College dorm at 25th street and 1st avenue in Manhattan. I lived in the same dorm room for five years. After that, I moved in with some friends who were living in an apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. When the landlord raised our rent, we moved to Astoria, Queens. It was from there that I moved to Los Angeles. 

I lived in New York for a total of 26 years. I've lived in Los Angeles since 2000, but even if I spend the next quarter of a century right here in L.A., I'll always have "New Yorker" as part of my identity. Growing up there--like growing up anywhere--leaves marks on you. It's just that there's a sort of universal definition of "New Yorker." There's not a universal definition for being a native Cincinnatian, so even though being from Cincinnati might be part of someone's identity, what that means may not be obvious to the rest of the world.

But everybody knows that being a New Yorker means being tough and streetwise. It means having an accent wherein one pronounces the word coffee "kawwfee." It means being loud and outgoing. It means being the type of person who does not suffer fools gladly, or, in the local parlance, "ya don't take crap from nobody." When folks from all over the world find out you're from New York, they make a number of assumptions about you. These may or may not be true, but a New Yorker can take pleasure in either fulfilling people's expectations or subverting them.

Another interesting part of the New Yorker effect is this: many non-native New Yorkers have lived there at some point in their lives. These people often look back on their time in New York as one of the most enjoyable times of their lives, and they will instantly start reminiscing about old hang-outs or quintessential New York moments. I can make a friend really fast with a person who loved eating Ess-A Bagels when they lived near Peter Cooper Village. ("Really? Me too! I used to stand on that long line--remember that ridiculous line?--on Sunday mornings and get a bagel with butter and eat it in the park!")

I've met two people in the last couple of weeks who lived in the same part of Brooklyn as I did, and both times it automatically built a rapport. Today, I had kawfee, I mean coffee, with an old high school friend who said that a property manager showed her the "good apartment" once she found out my friend used to live in Bay Ridge. Job interviewers will go off on joyful tangents when they see your educational background includes a stint in the Big Apple. Here in L.A., die-hard east coasters will assume that New Yorkers are somehow more "real" than our Angelino peers. (I've met plenty of "real" Angelinos, by the way.) Folks are dying to know if you really believe that New York pizza kicks every other pizza's ass.

The New Yorker effect is a wonderful thing. It's like the key that opens many doors. For my friend, the mere mention of Brooklyn was literally the key that opened the door to the "good apartment." Knowing New York is an advantage in business. It's a brilliant ice-breaker at parties. But more than that, it's common ground. People who are from there, and those who have lived there even for a little while, hold New York in their hearts. Knowing that your heart includes New York, and my heart includes New York means that our hearts have something in common. Isn't that the definition of a friend?

Look Up

When you're riding the 6 train at 2 o'clock in the morning, it's probably a good idea to keep your head down. I'll call this head-down position "defensive stance." The years I spent riding buses and trains has bred in me a tendency to walk and sit in public with my head angled downward. And if I'm sitting in a public place, say at a coffee shop or on a bench somewhere, my "defensive stance" includes sticking my head in a book or reading something on my Blackberry. But this has got to stop.

It turns out that when you're walking and looking at your shoes, or when you drink that latte and constantly check for new texts, you're missing out on something: everything. 

At first I developed my "defensive stance" for safety. When I started riding the train a lot, I was a petite teenager, so keeping my head down discouraged unwanted conversations, especially late at night. When I moved to California, I rode the bus for almost five years and kept up my defensive stance. Once I started driving, I didn't really need the stance anymore. But old habits are hard to break, so I kept on ducking, avoiding the world's gaze, just hanging out inside my own head. And once my personal life started to go south, I seemed to need something to occupy me anytime I was alone. My Blackberry became very important because there was always something to read, always something to do. But now my defensive stance wasn't about my outward safety, it was about avoiding my own thoughts, avoiding the problems that were staring me in the face.

I finally did face those problems. It was difficult to do, and what followed was the most challenging ten-month period of my life. There have been many moments in that time when I've been tempted to stick my head back in a book and live at, say, Hogwarts, rather than in my real life. In other words, my head stayed down for a while. But I have this therapist who's amazing, and she suggested I do something very simple: she told me to look up.

She calls it "mindfulness," an awareness of the things happening around me right now. I was skeptical that it would make any difference in my life. I mean, how could changing the angle of my head or sitting bookless at Starbucks possibly help me heal? But the plain truth is that it has. How? Well, two ways that I can see. 

First, by getting my head out of books and off of my Blackberry, I am more likely to address how I truly feel about my life. I am less likely to avoid unpleasant emotions, something I had been doing for years. Second, by picking my head up and looking at a bird, a chair, a picture on a wall, I can get out of my head. I don't think I need to tell you that you can think yourself right down a spiral into hell. You can think yourself into a bad attitude. You can dwell and wallow and make yourself miserable. But if you're mindful, if you pay attention to the simple things around you, you can avoid the pitfalls of brain babble.

Looking up has done wonderful things for me. When I find myself slipping down into the pit, I stop and look around me. When I'm tempted to duck the world, I challenge myself to notice 10 things. Do you know something? The world is a pretty fascinating place. Birds are cute, and they sing and eat french fries off the ground. Women's dresses are really colorful this season. Rain clouds sometimes move quickly. Toddlers whine when they're overtired. Fresh bagels are fun to bite into (and are also superdelicious). Supermarkets are cool inside on a hot day. Trees are ridiculously beautiful, especially in springtime.

When I'm walking, when I'm sitting, when I'm waiting in line at the store, I am starting to learn to abandon my defensive stance. Instead, the voice in my head reminds me to look up. It turns out that life can be pretty cool and interesting, and even when it isn't, I don't have to spend every waking moment thinking at seventy-five miles an hour. I can just watch that adorable little bird eat a french fry that's twice his size. Who knew that could make such a big difference?

 

I feel like I just woke up.

~Hero

Reminders

When we're tired at work and at the end of our patience/rope/sanity, sometimes it's difficult to remember why we got involved in our profession in the first place. But sometimes, we get reminders that renew us, and help us go back to that place where we can recall why the hell we started doing this in the first place. For a doctor, it might be saving a life, for a stockbroker, it might be a big fat check. As a teacher, I get probably more validation than say, someone in an office job. My students thank me all the time. They accomplish things; they graduate. So that part of it is mostly pretty cool, but at the end of the semester, one may begin to wonder why one got into music, instead of say, math. The Math Department doesn't have a concert every night for the last month of the semester. The professors in the Math Department don't have to listen to performances for hours on end as final exams. The folks in the Math Department aren't expected to get up on stage at the end of the semester and do math problems in front of their colleagues and students. But in Music, we do all these things. We attend concerts--not just our own, but each other's. We listen to juries and final performances. We all perform in the Faculty Recital. I did four performances in that recital. Not to mention that in the last week--which is finals week, by the way--I was in the Composer's Club fundraiser on Monday night, the Opera Club performed Tuesday (I am the faculty moderator for the club), I came to Wes' concert on Wednesday, and I performed in the Composer's Club concert on Thursday. Why the hell did I go into music in the first place?!?

How wonderful then, for me to have two reminders yesterday, just when I was feeling my lowest and most burnt out. It was about 2 in the afternoon. I had just sat for four hours of final performances, and I was dragging myself down to my office. I got barely three hours of sleep the night before so I was yawning and sleepy and wondering when I was going to get to sleep late again. It didn't look good. I opened the main office door (it's a suite of offices I share with five other people) and heard a beautiful sound: Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.

Now, I don't have to tell some of you, but Beethoven's 7th is one of the three pieces of music I credit with making me a musician.* My colleague was playing B7 in her office because, after listening to some of her piano students mangle great works of art, she needed to "remember what real music sounded like." She offered to turn it down if it was bothering me, but I said, "turn it up," instead. We sat there in our offices, shuffling around our stupid paperwork, listening all the while. During the second movement (my favorite part of the symphony), I walked to the doorway of her office, and we exchanged a few words about how amazing the music was. I barely remember what we said, I just leaned on the door jamb, staring at nothing, remembering that music is indeed a beautiful thing. A decade and a half ago, this same piece helped me make the decision to study music seriously, and here it was reminding me that even though I was burnt out and sick of it all, that music was (and is) still a magical thing that I am lucky to do every day.

And if that weren't enough, my friend Jon took me out to see John Brion last night at the Largo. Jon, T, and I had an amazing Japanese dinner beforehand at a place where you grill your own food (including a birthday s'more at the end!!), then we had drinks at the Roger Room, and then we went to Largo. John Brion is an unbelievable musician. He's just made out of music, that's all I can think to say about him. He plays everything on stage, makes samples and loops and effectively plays in a band consisting entirely of...himself. He'll play a drum loop that plays continuously while he goes over to the piano and adds a piano loop over that. Then there are synthesizers that sound like flutes and space age keyboards and guitars, and he just layers the hell out of everything. And some of it is planned out (he has original songs), but sometimes he'll riff on something pre-existent. When he asked for requests, people yelled out everything from his songs to "Freebird" to "It's Rainin' Men" (T asked for that one and JB said he didn't think anyone had ever asked for it before). I requested Beethoven's Seventh, of course! The layered music often has beautiful, crazy harmonies that would have Chopin and Liszt jumping for joy. He's a hell of a pianist, and his timing as a drummer (and in general) is impeccable.

There were many incredible moments--the "Stairway to Heaven" finale was breathtaking (he started it on vibes!)--but something happened to me during one of the first songs he played. As I mentioned, I was tired yesterday, so even though I was having fun, I was struggling to stay with it when the curtain went up. He started this one loop. It was the last four measures of a song, and he kept adding to it. Piano, string sounds, the theremin-like keyboard, guitar. It was a wash of sound over a simple progression that kept looping back upon itself. And somewhere in the thick plaid of sound that he created, I was suddenly, fiercely happy to be alive, to be there, and to be a musician.

He ended the evening with an encore. He asked for requests and someone yelled out "Frere Jacques." We laughed, but then he played it on the piano. Basically it was variations on the theme, played simply at first, but with growing complexity throughout. One version had this creeping, descending bassline that moved through harmonies that would have made Bach cringe, but sounded rich and beautiful to twenty-first century ears. The variations lasted a couple of minutes, but he managed to touch on at least 150 years of music history. It was Debussy for a bit, then Liszt, then Chopin, John Adams for a second, Steve Reich for a moment. I wanted it to last forever, but what made it great was that it didn't. It is made all the more special because it was live and ephemeral and it will never happen like that again.

So I remember now why I did this...just in time for summer school! It's okay, though. I'm grateful to have a job. And I'm extremely and forever grateful that it's a job where I get to experience and share music every day.

~Hero

*the other two pieces are Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, and the Soundtrack to Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.