iv_everdumbening_one_grand_passion frAnk you must have one grand passion. on the way home, i decide to take freeman falls road. it is the long way, but i want to stop letting time function as the warden, instead it shall become my luxury, the one grand passion we must all have if we are to find happiness when we open the door. a doe at the edge of the woods braced to leap into my path is not only a hazard to avoid, but also a shadow on the wall of my soul, like plato's cave, flickering in the firelight, speaking of choices and fate, and destiny, that is, when i take the time to see it, hear it, learn it. what is your one grand passion? 020211 ... ever dumbening The candy shop is large and confusing. Even in darkened skies, the shelves are stocked. They know what I like and store a limitless supply. Biology, and all its extensions, to and from. The oil-drop shimmer on a dragonfly. Meals prepared with or for or by friends (and sages unknown too). The perfect molding of the earth's generosity. Words scattered on the ground, waiting for meaning. The physical, crushing and touching. These all hold uncountable pools of water for me, for my thirst and cleansing, but music is flight. Music. Interspecies jealousy leaves us wanting--wings, gills, claws, fur, faceted eyes, sonar. But we have those in the craft of music. Books, movies, virtual reality--these all transport, and quite vividly. But music is original, primal, ancient. Heartbeats and resonant wood and flakes of stone and grunts and wails. We've had the building blocks for tens of thousands of years. And though so many species create spectacular sound, we alone sculpt tones and rhythms with reckless intent. My three siblings and both parents all play at least one instrument. A German/Lutheran heritage filled the evening air with Bach and Mozart. Older siblings spilled Jethro Tull and ELP and Yes and James Taylor and Earth Wind & Fire freely about the living room on the old KLH. With friends, a network of Maxells brought John Scofield and Rush and The Who. At fifteen, a semester in Germany brought Elgar and Dvorak and Telemann. Three years in New Orleans moved my feet with the second line rhythms of Rebirth and John Mooney and John Vidacovich. Beijing, though rarely a provider, offered a few transcedent nights at the San Wei bookstore, with wind and string instruments beyond words. Black Rock City continues to push my sonic boundaries. The list is huge and varied and growing. I am picky, cynical, demanding. Art and science collide with well-used dynamics, with lines ascending and descending simultaneously, with dissonance, with the math of Chopin and the mud of Miles. I could cite a thousand times where that blending of passion and technique flowed, filling me with lines of thick black ink, explaining the nature of time and love, explaining that every little thing is gonna be all right. 020219 ... unhinged 'the math of chopin and the mud of miles' 100413 ... unhinged hip_hop 100413 what's it to you? who go blather from