monkiefeet

I've come to music from poetry and I feel my music has some of the same sensibilites as my poetry. Like my poetry, most of my music is improvised. They arrise from and respond to conditional circumstances. Even if it later gets written down and remembered, it mostly appears out of improvisation. And, like the poetry, most of what interests me about this music is not completely knowing where it's going, but learning about where it came from and is heading as and after it arrives.Poetry is a means for thinking what I can't think yet. Poetry is a vehicle for giving nothing form. In contrast to the logical and syntactically correct and unambiguous sentences of prose--like these you are reading--poetry can build a sense unrealized previously. It can bring a sense into being. It is a means of thought that is slightly different from making meaning. (You can read some at http://moontriangle.blogspot.com/)And, for me, music does something similar, but in its own way.I recall a comment by Ornette Coleman to the effect that we shouldn't settle for the limited number of emotions we've learned and given names to. There is much much more. There's no limit. And, through music, we can feel more, we can come into contact with emotions that we didn't realize existed before. The emotion of being lost. The emotion of locking a door. The emotion of watching a building burn. The emotion of a strand of hair in the sink.They saturate our lives, layering each moment and becoming evident when we "hear."My music is a part of such a practice for me. I don't know what the emotions are before I start, but I begin to get a sense for them in the midst of playing. They never become crystal clear, just like most other emotions we have learned names for. But, these fragile, collapsing, thriving and terrorizing objects of emotion are something I sense are worthy of experiencing and storing away in this gathering sack of my soul. They become the lenses through which to study the beauty of being.