Well, summer would not come to me, so I had to stride into summer. Seriously, the poor, misguided Seattites call this month "Junuary," which followed "Mayvember." Sick. Anyway, Kim and I got a late start, but powered through and rolled in at four in the morning, blasting Avenue Q and wasted on gas station coffee and Taco Bell food. The drive was great fun for a long time, but then not, and then it felt so undescribably good to not be moving anymore. Summer has exploded here in the last few days, I'm told. The roses in the front yard are like an ocean of flowers.

The harbor looks like a smooth, gray expanse; an impenetrable gelatin with creatures and mystery suspended throughout. Probably a lot of old rusty garbage, too. Ever since I was a child, I have fantasized about being able to go, breathe and see the interior of the cold cold harbor. Despite their corniness, I like anything to do with mermaids, because they are mythically capable of this.

On Music and Emily's Dowager Fantasy

I'm temping at a place with a magnificent view of the watery grey harbor, industry and a cruise ship that is boarding because today is Friday. The ship fills me with the desire to make my fortune and cover myself in enough glory to someday be aboard some kind of ship, surrounded by admiring young men. Of course, the young men will be eyeing the young maidens, and I think I would like it if they could profit by their association with me to impress the girls. Heh.

I think that music is like the life force- not the feat of the individual. Just as each person is part of life- an expression of nature, rather than a separate thing- music happens through us. Not as a posession that we have to hold or to give, but like the water in our bodies or the air we breathe- communal stuff that exists without judgement. We practice in order to clear a path for the music to come through our bodies, to make the listener aware only of the music and not the vessel of transmission.