Sinking to the Top, Part 3

For those who just arrived: this is a little series recalling my teaching "career" at local universities. Or how to be Adjunct without really trying.

Before I begin what may seem to be more of an indictment than recollection, let me say that I am grateful for all the years, however sparse and erratic at times, of employment at the university. I do believe that there is a questionable practice among universities who like to keep a long roster of faculty, but in reality, keep them at part-time status for obvious financial reasons. As the former chaplain of the school stated before he left in frustration "There will always be a carrot of an offer here; never a steak." Things, as life teaches us all the damn time, are never what they are cracked up to be.

Get to the story!

One of the great experiences at West Liberty State ('77-'81) was joining Dr. Leonard's newly formed guitar ensemble. From the moment we gathered, I liked it. It would have helped if we could (Joe Couture excluded) cope with quarters, halves and wholes. It is hard to judge how this group sounded, but in my recollection, it was pretty crude. Guitarists are trained to be soloists and their lack of ensemble experience is not a genetic flaw, as some faculty at West Lib suspected, but rather the result of not playing a band instrument in the public school system.

What is a guitar ensemble? Just doing a casual Google, I found this group. This ensemble looks organized and disciplined. We were not. In our defense, this was a new idea back then. There were no LAGQs back then, my friend.

In a moment of delusion, I decided that I would start an ensemble of my own at the university. Remember when I said that it's not a good idea to teach something that you love? This could never be truer.

The first group was a rag tag group of nursing students, the schizo, and a long-haired newspaper reporter. We couldn't handle the most basic of music. We crushed, bitch-slapped, mangled and derailed the simplest configuration of notes. The music that I could hear in my head was being butchered. There were many, many nights when it would be all so painful. Often, I would go and get more than a few beers to take the edge off. I had to. I wanted the music to sing, but all it did was croak.

Because of the stubborn German in me, I dug in my heels. I knew that eventually a reward would come; I just didn't know when. Our first concert was played on campus because I certainly wasn't dragging the group out to the general public. The modest audience was faculty and students and a few friends of the ensemble. The ice cold chairwoman seemed pleased at our little group. It was quaint in her mind. She paired us up once with a brass group and called the recital "Pucker and Pluck." You can't make this stuff up. To her chilly credit, she was supportive.

No matter the group these early years, the growth process from first rehearsal to concert was the same: stumbling and stalling, people practicing at rehearsal, lots of laughter, and inside I was struggling to keep faith. I felt like a punching bag no matter how I tried to distance myself. It didn't work. Doesn't work today. Music is personal to me.

I eventually added an old college buddy of mine to the mix hoping that he would raise the standards and act as inspiration to the group. I had made a big miscalculation in my thinking: he couldn't read music either. Instead of being ashamed at his skills, he would just laugh like he didn't have a care in the world. What could I do? I had invited him, he was taking an hour to get to the class every Thursday and our was friendship a long one.

After the rehearsal, we would always go and eat Chinese food at almost lethal spicy levels. Food is a great narcotic. It took a while, but I asked him why he didn't seem to be bothered why he, a college graduate, could not read music any better than nursing majors who were new to both guitar and notation. "You know I've always had a problem with rhythm," he finally stated with some seriousness. Getting him to talk or act seriously was tough. It was (is) both a joy and a curse of being his friend. His contribution was more of moral support and friendship than a musical one. I love the guy, fun to be around, but this was not uplifting the level of the group. I had to wait.

Ensemble members came and went, some were steady, and my coping with musical disasters was becoming easier. My skin was getting thicker and now I had an outlet for creativity. I could write little pieces for the group. After all, they were a captive audience. This too came with a price.

If I thought it was painful to hear other people's music hacked through, it was like hammers against my head to hear my own pieces "recomposed" through the magic of clumsy and misguided fingers. Still, being hard-headed has the reward of persistence and I know the ins and outs of this kind of group like a conductor knows an orchestra. Useless and arcane knowledge in the real world, but knowledge nonetheless.

Also, something very important was happening: the quality of the players was improving. This wasn't just happy-fun time with nursing majors and bored housewives (Writer's note: these were fine, wonderful people, but music was not their forte.). The group's personnel was a combination of better students and people from the community. We were beginning to get beyond the mechanics of the notes and some music was starting to happen. We had to move beyond the choir room recitals or we would never be worth anything as a musical group. Just an academic exercise, a salon rarity or just a waste of effort. It had to sail, it had to move and the only way was public concerts. But one little bite before we go.

As one of the older players from the community told me years later, "We went through a rather strange period." That had to be the time I was absolutely full of John Cage and his marvelous ideas (This is a great resource of his wacky stories.). This was one of the last performances at the school's choir room and I thought this was a good time to release some long pent up frustrations and make a statement.

I wrote a piece that just had instructions written on index cards. They were strange requests like: "Wander out into the audience and ask what time it is and then ask, "Is that your watch?" The players followed these absurd instructions with a passion. One guy got up and left the room, only to return a few minutes later. All of it absurd theater disguising my musical slap in the face. I both envied and hated the classical regime. Adjunct, part-time, small time, small potatoes guitar teacher frustrated with the lack of opportunities playing an instrument that neither fit the classical world it purported to be a part of and certainly not fitting into the rock and roll band bar world I saw both as enticing and moronic. As Joe Campbell said so eloquently: "Neither is, nor is not."

To make the parody more apparent, I was wearing an old tux jacket conducting this chaos with an over-the-top serious expression that we commonly see in conductors. As planned, all of a sudden I yelled angrily at the group: "Where is he?? Where IS he?" The group was to stop, and looked puzzled. Off stage, comes my friend dressed like he is going bass fishing. His instructions were to enter, stand still and stare at the ceiling. (This is my version of the beatific vision.) At one point, there were three of us, Stooge like, staring at nothing on the ceiling. The audience, composed mainly of friends, laughed and got the joke. I think. Or they thought I had finally gone off the proverbial deep end.

Eventually, I knew that if the group was ever to actually climb out of it's fragile, safe shell of just performing at the university, two things would have to happen: First, as stated before, the group would have to improve drastically. It's one thing to plonk through easy music at the music department recital, quite another to put your reputation on the line in public. Second, I would have to find a suitable public venue. Taylor Books was new at that time and it was easy to call and book a gig for the group. (Later, booking a gig at this cafe-book-a-blog-a-torium was damn near impossible as they had bookings a year in advance.)

The Taylor Books gigs were an odd combination of performance and the loud grinding of coffee beans and cappuccino machines. When we were playing, we were all business and I recall some Bach coming off very well. All the notes in the right place! I spied a Marshall guitar professor watching us intently from a distance. Oddly, he never introduced himself that night. Maybe he didn't want to face the inevitable, "How was it?" question.

I know I sound a bit harsh in these recollections and to be honest now, I wonder why I kept it going for 16 years. There were some glorious moments. As one member said, "You pulled off some miracles with the group."

The ensemble was beginning to be a real group. The two highlights for us are clear. We played at a guitar fest at Common Grounds - once a thriving non-alcohol place for local music. There we performed a piece I had written in the style of Steve Reich. With a conductor, we not only managed to get through the piece, something of a miracle, but we did it with musicality and verve. So much so that we stole the show with a standing ovation. That kind of satisfaction has been the rarest of the rare in my musical world.

We hit our peak at the last Kanawha Forum gig we played. At this time, I was reading Fripp's diary and for some reason, the expression "Just play the notes" stuck in my being. I told the ensemble this moments before we walked onstage.

It was the calmest I had ever been onstage. I could feel the audience, but no jolt of adrenaline nor nerves. I was fully centered and focused. It was incredible. We debuted two pieces: one of mine in the style of Glass called "Revolving Doors" and one composed by my student, John. My piece got quite a healthy dose of applause. This may sound falsely immodest, but I really didn't expect that. Glass style getting approval from Charleston audience? Unheard of.

The student's piece involved using a looping device called a Boomerang. Always with a theatrical flair, I suggested a slight-of-hand way of using it. The audience didn't know it, but John had already pre-recorded a loop in it, ready to go by the mere push of a floor pedal. It looked like John was playing, but it was the machine. The piece went on for about five to six minutes until the end, when every member repeated the same six note figure in unison. Then, like our friend Haydn's Farewell symphony, one by one we left the stage without acknowledging the audience-just slip off quietly and quickly. The composer was the last man on stage and then after a short stay, he left.

The thing is, there was still the sound of a guitar playing, though no guitarist was to be seen. The digital repeater was hidden as well as the amp. We thought the audience would get the little prank we had played on them and leave, but they stayed and were listening still. They hadn't moved! Finally, the student went out and turned off the loop and smiled: "That's it. The concert's over." Thunderous applause as we returned to take a bow. I have never seen an audience quite like that. It was tremendous.

All ideas have their time to burst forth, struggle to fruition, reach a zenith and then trail off. It's the natural arc of things-so very true of musical ones, especially groups.

The group played some school concerts that were memorable, giving free PR to the school which has never been acknowledged to this day, but something else was happening. Many members were not so much interested in the ensemble anymore as they were discussing and practicing solo music.

I had a sense that it was coming to a close when we were trying to rehearse another of my pieces. One girl was practicing a solo piece, others were trying to get through the parts or sitting silently or noodling. I can accept that maybe the piece didn't appeal to them, but to not even try was symptomatic of a larger issue.

From a financial point of view, what I had been getting paid was a joke. It was embarrassing. Two hours plus on a Thursday night for mere dollars to give private lessons didn't set well with me. Plus, I think we had achieved what I had wanted to achieve sixteen years ago. The job has been completed.

Eventually, I lowered the boom and told them. Some of them kindly offered to pay me out of their own pocket, but things were changing for me in my private life. I was getting busier and busier: time was tight. I knew that I was making the right decision when Bert, the most wonderful and loyal player to ever join the group, told me that he and his wife were moving to Las Vegas for their retirement.

Bert had been around for a good many of those years and I took it as a sign. Bert was always dedicated, patient, kind and always a good barometer for the group. If Bert bitched about something, I took it more seriously than other members. He was always a good sounding board for ideas. Other members had come and gone, but Bert was a rock. If he was gone, then letting go of the group was going to be a lot easier.

In the end, I'm not sure what we accomplished. This was not a bar band where people might have some recollection of gigs past. Not even a symphony orchestra where the local community would have supported it. It was a small, delicate classical guitar group that left no ripples. All doen for art's sake I suppose.

I know that I learned a hell of a lot about what players can/can not do, organizing and leading people, and how to present music to the public. We got to sound as good as we were ever going to sound and that we had played all the local spots seems like an accomplishment. The fact that we were considered good enough for the Kanawha Forum was pleasing.

In fact, recently, someone asked me about the group. I hadn't thought about it for a while. The group no longer was together I told them and that was the end of that discussion. Sixteen years and that's the way the music ends.

Not with a bang, nor a whimper. Not even a pluck.

Coming soon:

Sinking to the Top 4: More Academia Dementia

Only a "Gig"ment of Our Imagination

I had forgotten.

It had been since December that I received an email telling me about a gig in April. Talking to a musician in December about a gig in April is like telling them about a gig in five years: it's not going to bring about a whole lot of concern. But professionals are (cough cough) supposed to remember and eventually I did. A little late in the game, but nonetheless.

This is the same gig we played last year, so we just need to knock off the rust and get going.

Working with these old friends is so easy and four hours goes by without a glance at the clock. The thing about playing with musicians of this caliber is that almost anything is possible. The thing is deciding what not to play. We all have chops, but musical taste is the guiding principle. Or at least we hope it is.

The hardest thing (besides some devilishly tricky passages) is the arrangements. Those can be a bit tricky. Here's an example:

"OK. AABBAABB. Then vamp with that weird chord while you solo."

"When do I go out?"

"Whenever you feel it. Just fade out. Then AABBB, but a clear cutoff at the end. DAHT!
A Beethovian kind of silence."

Does anyone know what the hell we are talking about?

Nah. But it's fun.

The Taste of Non-sweeetness

Tonight's forecast calls for more sourness.

Sourness does not speak before the lesson.

(Oh joy to see you too.)

Fidgets, fumbles. I am about seven feet away so that the vortex might not reach me.

There is some progress, some pieces remain a tangle of notes. With as much objectivity that I can muster, I state that some improvement has taken place.

(Is anyone uncomfortable here? We are not here in truth.)

She lies again. I counter with what the department head said she said. She weasels.

Then more going through the motions. I say that class is over.

Without a sound, she leaves.

Sourness goes with her.

Two Sided Coins

"And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin"

Last week's teaching, in common parlance, was a doozy. Or more accurately, a mixed bag of low and high.

This semester, I have been experiencing a bit of turmoil coming from one particular student. Last year, she was motivated, interested and easy to teach. This year, it's like dragging rocks up a mountain side. It's been nothing but a fight. Every week the same old complaints of "I hate a pick." "This music is stupid." "I am never going to play guitar again, so why should I practice?" Or this one: "All I want is a C out of this course anyway."

She is the sourest student I can remember in recent history. Immature for her age for sure. This kind of situation can zap your energy and positivity in a flash. You can, in a sense, feel yourself going down with the ship. Best to keep a distance. Or you will end up in an immature discussion all designed to avert the truth that she is not doing the work. It's a slight-of-hand trick that students use all the time.

Each week, I have stepped back and become all business. I can and have seen where this might lead: end of the year grade grumbling. I have alerted the department chairperson and come time for juries, he will be up to speed about her declining interest and lousy attitude.

On the flip side, I am blessed with two students who are like sponges. I had been wanting to put these two bright players together for some time and watch the sparks fly. The youngest is a sophmore in high school and the other a college senior. The three of us sounded like maniacs. An hour and a half later, all combinations of finger exercises played at challenging tempi and a dash of King Crimson, we were all still energized, but I think they wanted to quit. I felt it, but was elated. So far from the drudgery of the previous lesson.

The next week, I asked the high school kid what he thought of the lesson. Though bright and pleasant natured, he is always a man of few words.

"My arms were tired."

Oh yeah. I rock.

Oh yeah.

Watch This Film!

Last night, I stayed up way past what I should because I could not tear myself away from this new documentary about Philip Glass.

This is the film I had hoped for when I purchased this DVD. It is a good film, but doesn't begin to scratch the surface of this most fascinating man.

This new work is simply incredible. My admiration for this man has grown exponentially overnight. It is beautiful, revealing, funny, sad-everything a good film should be.

Glass has an energy about him that, like all great men, inspires those around him; even those just passively watching a film. He exudes a positive, open attitude which is infectious.

It begins with Glass talking about and I paraphrase here, "not being confined by other people's views" of him. He simply "didn't care and it saved me a whole lot of trouble." He has been the target of some of the most hateful criticism. He laughs at it. As you and I would be crushed, Glass is concerned only with writing music, hearing it and reaching an audience.

A knockout! Five stars. Amazon has a release date of April 21.

Soul Food

I spoke too soon

Friday night brought temps in the 20's and so the cycle of freezing the blooms. Before that happened, I got a shot or two.

re·sil·ience

Took these this morning right as I came out the door.

I thought the snow would have destroyed these delicate blooms, but never underestimate.

When you see this prodigious display of life, you can't help but be a bit humbled.

I feel like playing hooky and building a small platform up inside the tree.

And just spend the day doing nothing.

This first day of spring.

Buy This Book

This long awaited little tome arrived yesterday and I couldn't wait to get my greedy paws all over it.

If you are a fan of Bruford and his work, this is a knock-out.

Wow.

The chapter on the 80's Crimson is priceless.

Bruford takes off the gloves baby and dishes hard.

It makes you want to say, "Gee, Bill, why don't you tell us what you really think??"

There's a story about Tony Levin at an Al DiMeola session that is incredible. Simply Mozartian.

It is so good that it is hard to get anything else done.

Sinking to the Top, Part 2

To recap: graduate college, resumes out, one bite, local asylum has opening, I apply. Regret to follow.

To Tango, To Teach

My first job outside of the walls of collegedom. It wasn't much, but at least I was teaching something that I loved.

And that was essentially the problem.

The music department had the feel of a home salon rather than an institution of higher learning. Everything was so run down, makeshift and homey. They were even painting the practice room walls themselves. The music department was making a slow comeback after being axed by the previous administration.

A most difficult woman, the department head clearly had her hands and mark on everything. The largest room, the choral room (not large by any real measure), was dedicated to a student who had died in an auto accident. His portrait just happened to be painted by the chairwoman's husband and just so happened to have their daughter in the picture as well. It was nepotistic to the extreme. Their daughter's senior recital was a classic example of overproduction. Dad composed and played, friends sang duets with her and the program notes were a small novel. Ridiculous.

Though the chairwoman was "nice" to me (That kind of icy nice. Like "You WILL do this, won't you?" nice.), she nearly drove the secretary to suicide. She loathed this woman with a dreaded passion. I listened to her stories about how each weekend would bring about a tearful, suicidal state. She said one weekend she walked about in the rain in a tearful fit. A bit melodramatic for my taste, but I knowing the source, I sympathized. "Get another job" would be my silent advice, but I couldn't bring myself to say that. I couldn't see how/why anyone would tolerate that situation.

Good times, but mental health wasn't just an issue for staff.

It was almost as if they attracted students who were having difficulties with their mental life. I already spoke about the schizo, but other students were fresh from the funny farm. This one poor lost soul, traumatized by an event in his early twenties, wandered around with a huge backpack, shoulders slumped and rarely making eye contact. In class one day, I kept driving a point to him about music theory. I must have went too far because he excused himself and took a white pill out of his pocket and downed it. "I take those when I get confused or too anxious." I was taken back to say the least, but it was behavior that was commonplace.

The quirky characters who routinely came through those doors, if it weren't so sad, were almost comical. I told my old colleague from school, "It's like they accept anyone." He nailed it: "Hey? Are you breathing? OK. Come on in!"

It was suggested that I first meet with some students in order to assess their questions and needs. I never do this now. All can be handled over the phone. My philosophy is like a car salesman: get the customer in the door and the salesman in me will do the rest. Back then, I did more private conferences than a psychiatrist. Which is what I felt like anyway. The thought of me helping anyone with their mental life is richly ironic. I'm not right, kids.

Sometimes it was like the only reason a student would come to me was for me to give them some advice and assurance. I had one student and in a philosophical mood, (A mood I never engage in now.) I told him, "In a sense you are your own teacher." Well, he must have thought about that and taken it to heart because he never came back.

A pleasant young man was among these pre-lesson talks. He was mentally acute, but I found myself desperately not trying to show any reaction to his sudden and bizarre facial and body spasms. It was like a Monty Python skit. I could concentrate on what he was saying, but inside I was saying, "Here we go again. Can't I get anyone in here that's relatively normal?" Finally, the guy explained his medical condition. You can't fault the guy, but it was definitely all part of a trend at the school. I was willing to try to teach him, but he never came back.

We had some older students who were like characters in a play. There was the lounge lizard guy who had done the Gospel circuit and wanted to learn to read music. He told me tales of life on the road that sounded more like Motley Crue than a Bible-thumpin' gospel quartet. He was later dismissed from the school because of an alleged incident involving a female student in the library. Evidently stacks were commented on in the stacks. Or something like that. Old Harvey ended up down the road at another institute of dysfunctional learning.

There was the older mom who was trying to learn music theory. She was very sweet, but not so good with the theory. She loved to talk about her problems as well. My morale and enthusiasm got so burned away, that all we used to talk about was dialogue from Apocalypse Now. By semester's end, she could recite some dialogue with accuracy. It was really funny to hear a middle-aged housewife imitate Col. Kurtz. A teaching highlight to be sure.

One gentleman didn't seem to to trust my advice about guitar and always wanted to know what books he could purchase to get the information. Though I kept trying to get him to learn the fundamentals, he kept buying books. Books about guitar are great, but they can also have widely conflicting information about even the most basic of ideas. Books are a 50-50 gamble. You need a teacher, dudes. Ron never got that and he soon vanished. He probably bought a book about guitar teachers and how to leave them.

One cocksure kid came in and told us he was going to Berklee, but wanted to audition for us. I looked quizzically at the chairperson and she back at me in bewilderment. She said that our little community music school and Berkleewere not a fair comparison and we certainly knew the difference.

This kid was so full of himself that I doubt he even realized that we were in the room. He started off by saying in this hip voice like he was on the stage already, "This is a little tune by Charlie Parker called Ornithology." To add even more grooviness, he started to scat sing along with his guitar. I thought it was the summit of youthful arrogance until he said, "I never had any technical trouble with music." I said flatly, "Have you ever played Bach?" "No, man, but I could probably get it." I have no doubt that kid thought that he had a golden road ahead of him, a stellar career where his name would be revered among the jazz giants of the 20Th century. The sad truth is more that he will end up among the anonymous millions of talented jazz guitarists who will struggle to make a living and never achieve any national recognition. He probably has some combo and a steady gig at a dinner club. If he's lucky.

I remember an Asian student who taught me a valuable lesson about why a syllabus is so important and why it must be legally the most airtight document on earth. I asked him to pick some music that he might want to work on plus the usual requirements. He'd pick, a week or two would go by and he'd decided that the music was too difficult for him and so new material was selected. This cycle went on and on until, I had to lay down the hard line that, at the end of 15 weeks, there was nothing he could play for a final exam.

He tried to blame it on me! It was my fault. (All pause here to take in the unmitigated nerve of this man.)

We had a rather intense exchange, but as passive as I am, no student is going to rearrange reality for me. I told him that that it was he who kept switching material- material I had told him in advance was too difficult for him, but he did not listen. When you read the syllabus today, you see that there is a clause which clearly states that there must be evidence of the student's cooperation and willingness to follow the instructor's advice. He is the very reason for that being in there. I told you it was airtight, yes?

In the end, I had to pass him. He had led me around in a circle and I fell for it. Since that day, no student has done it since. Thanks for the lesson, buddy.

Over the years, I have sucessfully sidetracked all attempts by students by further tighening the syllabus, but recently I was reminded of the true nature of the college student.

This kid, who reminded me of Val Kilmer, was a recent and memorable addition to the hall of the shameless. We had a great first four to five weeks of lessons. Then, he missed three in a row. All totaled he missed five, which, by the syllabus, was an F. I had written him off and had gotten used to using his time slot for some practice time. I was in shock when the kid sauntered in like everything was hunky dory. When I finally got my stomach out of my throat, I thought, "Let's play this cool and see where the kid is going with this." I was intent on not letting my shock and anger show. So, I acted like everything was cool except I asked him where he had been. He told me that his classes were demanding much of him and he couldn't make it to this class. He came right out and said his other classes were more important to him. True to be sure, but not exactly a smart thing to say to your teacher. I said, "Regardless, you still have obligations to this class. Look at your syllabus. It's spelled out very clearly."

Val countered with the old Hail Mary chesnut: "I didn't get a syllabus." Methinks I smell desperation. "Yes you did or otherwise we wouldn't had had class."

He weaseled and wiggled like a fresh water eel until the lesson time was up. I wanted him out of there, but kept cool. I expected him not to show up for the jury in two weeks. Two weeks of more missing class, I might add; making the grand total 5-one third of the total attendance possible.

To surprise me yet again, he showed up for the jury. A jury is basically playing for me and two other faculty members. It's a way of showing that some learnin' occurred over the last 15 weeks.

I tried to explain to the guitar toting hombre that he must play four pieces, not the two he kept insisting was on the syllabus. You see, he even argued on the day of the jury. This kid should be a politician. The other faculty member there said, "You better let this kid do a jury or otherwise he will say that we did not afford him the opportunity." This was smart, smart thinking.

We let Mr. Ballsy hack miserably through two sad little single line guitar pieces. Oblvious to the end, he asked how he did. I said nothing and my colleague stated flatly, "That's all, Mr. Kilmer." It was the most unabashed display of grade grubbing I had ever seen. Wow. Just when you think you've seen it all.

More on beating my head against the academic wall next installment.

Oh Blobby

09.11 This moment is passing. It will not return.

Thank God the bare chest suit fashion went out.

And shall not return.

Hope then Departure

"Quietly you say to me,

the time has come for you to be alive again."

When I walk past the Tulip tree this season, it's the same story over and again.

Every year our Tulip tree comes to bloom too soon. Too soon? Sure, Mother Nature sends her mixed signals of warm, spring-like temperatures and then she lets Old Man Winter have one final raspy gasp and ruins all the beautiful pink blossoms. If the tree were just once allowed to come out in it all its full glory, the smell is just indescribable. It fills the street. Our neighbors leave their windows open just to enjoy it.
I hope that the tree gets to its full glory, but more often than not, the sudden cold turns those white and pink flowers to brown.

Hope. That's what fills me every spring. It is unstoppable and irresistible. It's as if the earth comes forth with such power that we are carried away with it whether we are ready or not. Spring is the starting point. The springboard for everything anew.

It's the best season really. Everything begins again. Despite our faults, shortcomings, ragged and dusty souls, we are forgiven and redemption is ours. The better part of our natures comes alive as well. It's a short period before the lazy chaos of summer.

It always stirs deep memories for me as well. Bittersweet memories of a college love affair long ago. Painful memories of my grandmother passing. I even remember having one really crappy 12th birthday when a kid picked on me. But also carefree times of growing up in rural Pennsylvania. Happier and much simpler.

I feel intoxicated by it all. But intoxication never lasts. And that's spring.

Then, yesterday, a cold slap. The snow came down, about 3 inches of it and transformed the world. Surreal and cruel.

I will post pictures.