The antiquity of the building becomes more beautiful with age. In my earlier years, I never took note of its architecture; but this day, early for my lesson, I rested on an old mahogony bench to finish my coffee and look over scores. I liked this building. Apart from its aesthetic beauty, magic happens in this building.

I gathered my coat and my music, and walked towards the wide hallway leading to Room 122. I heard someone playing, though somewhat muffled through the door. Maybe the previous lesson is still in progress. Propping myself up on my toes, I peaked my head through the tiny window of the heavy wooden door. I saw no other student. I only saw him, hidden behind the instrument, playing with his head hung over.

Is he practicing or just playing? Intrigued, I watched him. I felt guilty, like an intruder, as I hate being watched myself. I wondered about his life -- about his experiences on tour, his homeland in Prague, his friendship with Gould, his family, his wife. I wondered whether I should knock, or wait for him to finish. He did not look up from the piano once.

After many pauses of indecision, I knocked hesitantly, but he did not hear. I knocked again, and quietly let myself in. His eyes moved in my direction to acknowledge me, but continued playing. I sat myself in the only chair of the large room, placed as an afterthought beside a tall and handsome coat rack on which his grey rain coat hung. I inhaled the dusty scent of old hardwood floors, and the grandeur of the high ceiling.

Again, I watched him. But this time was different. This time, I became his audience and not an intruder. The sweet clarity of Bach floated towards the lofty ceiling. Bach's music is, after all, for the heavens. He closed his eyes. I became fixated on him. He had in his hands such poetry: precision of style, life experience, nobility, and artistic ingenuity. I closed my eyes to hear better.

The piece ended and he leaned his arms on the piano lid. He turned to me and exhaled in satisfaction, "Hi". I smiled at him. "Hi".

I know very little about life. But if I may offer any wisdom, it is that people don't belong to each other. The notion of calling a person "mine" is absurd at best, and dangerous at its worst. We can belong to God, to knowledge, to community, to success, to art; but to belong to any one person gives too much credit to the one in possession. Who are we to think that anyone belongs to us? Those who matter to us cannot be had or owned, but only graciously loaned.

Possession breeds avarice. It is not romantic -- it is ugly. Perhaps we should aspire to hold love dearly, but with free generosity. And beauty and lightness will follow.

Lazy summer weekends...

Niagra-on-the-lake

The sun poured through Victorian floor-to-ceiling windows, slightly ajar to the outdoor patio, enough to hear the chatter among friends, murmur of lovers, and the cling of cutlery on plates. Happily abundant flowers bursted from their beds and from their baskets hung from black iron street lamps. Gaze out the window and find handsome horse-drawn carriages, topped with society ladies in their chapeaux. Add one platter of assorted cheese, three glasses of Pinot Noir, and three long-time friends seated comfortably, and you have a perfect afternoon.

The road home stretched before us, while music filled every corner of the car. Passing century estates and wineries, I felt a complete satisfaction. I felt a little bit in love. Beyond vast and glorious vineyards, the earth gradually pulled the sun back to her. What a vision. We pulled over to the side of the road in search of the perfect camera shot; and taking the time to freeze such an image is priceless.

I become nostalgic for such moments; and for that, I thank God for writing.

Whoo! It is so very nice to play Ravel against the quiet breeze of an open window.

And who says pianists aren't tough. The Jeux D'eau has me stretching and contorting my hands in ways I never thought possible, and the monstrous glissando has literally torn the skin off my index finger. So far, blood has not been shed. But I feel the blood fast approaching, as this glissando is particularly exhilerating to play. Way to take the romance out of music.

she hears his music and hears
him undefineable, styled,
catalogues the lost in boxes to store
melancholy, the smell of her hair,
a sonatine;

a rusted penny for luck, finds him in
wet sheets while bathing her in dead roses,
still. she is overcome, over-loved.

on my way to Montreal...

I made a new friend. We exchanged phone numbers. She celebrates her eighty-eighth birthday today. Silver bangles cuffed her tiny wrists; her chocolate skin stretched to wrap her knuckles, swollen from arthritis. Her powdered face covered black freckles, and the red of her lips made her appear younger than her age. She showed me her family photos; I know the names of each member of her family and friends. She then proceeded to give me a detailed account of every operation she has endured. She is delicate, yet at the same time, a strong and educated woman. She praises the Lord continuously, and walks closely with Him in faith. Her blessings came from above. We chatted exuberantly, while sharing ginger-mints.

Jazz in Montreal...

My first night in town proved to be a flop; I attended three different shows -- one funk, one dub, and the other, just plain awful -- none of which could sustain my interest for more than three minutes. The situation seemed dire as I leafed through the festival program, and found that I already missed Wayne Shorter, Dave Holland, and Kenny Werner. My cousin, with whom I am staying, does not share my taste in music. He recommended a group entitled Cinematic Orchestra, some electronica music of sorts, which disappointingly, does not involve an orchestra at all.

Design in chaos -- But tonight, I heard music: Lee Konitz and his New Nonetet, including acclaimed New York guitarist, Ben Monder. I remember a time when I constantly heard about Monder. I first heard him at the Rex, a humble little jazz club in Toronto; the Rex hosting Monder resembled a poor village hosting the King. And the little club filled with intense energy and enthusiasm that evening. Tonight, this nine-piece combo received a standing ovation.

Although I have never been one for, well, more experimental-type music, I found this group to be sincere in their artistic endeavor. They are most certainly heavy players, and bold in challenging the more traditional jazz. In fact, I believe they abandon tradition altogether. They are creative, innovative, and oh-so-musically-intelligent! The drummer rendered such tasteful, almost melodious, solos; the trumpet screamed aggressively just the way I like. And no one juxtaposes chords like Ben Monder.

These musicians seem greatly interested in the effects of sound. Their arrangements sounded quite chaotic, often without any one clear soloist; but I see design in their chaos, so bravo to them.

Note: I have only seen one Chinese player this entire festival, and he played tonight with Lee Konitz. But he just had to play the bass clarinet.

Other thoughts and happenings...

The shopping here is always great. That's all I have to say about that.

Eurodeli makes fine lattes. But of course: they use Italian espresso beans.

My cousin, a typical bachelor, had me iron his shirt for him today. Actually, this came by as my own suggestion. After all, how is he going to "score chicks" (his words) with a wrinkled shirt? I say the only justification for wearing wrinkled shirts is if you are a jazz musician. Improvised music --> Improvised outfits.

Had I not forgotten my French, I would have realized that I spent half an hour leafing through the French literature and poetry of a gay bookstore.

The French are pleasure-loving people who possess a joie de vivre that Torontonians would die for. And they're all aesthetically-pleasing.

There is something so perfect in Time.

We are rarely graced with opportune moments; but when sprinkled with serendipity, let us note these moments of wonder. Because for me, these moments are the defining markers for seeing Him in my life: they are the difference between a life of meaning and a life of random materialism. There is an opportune moment for everything – for speech, for philosophy, for friendship, for understanding. I say these moments are rare because too often we miss them in our impatience. And if we are lucky, they may befall us at another time. We can hope in time. All is healed in time, all is revealed in time.

On playing in time – I feel His presence most when playing in time. There is such equality, such eternity, in a strong and steady pulse. There is such evidence of order. Playing in time is like walking alongside something greater, in perfect parallel. And for this, I tip my hat to J.S. Bach.

And into that gate they shall enter, and in that house they shall dwell, where there shall be no cloud nor sun, no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light, no noise nor silence, but one equal music, no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession, no foes nor friends, but one equal communion and identity, no ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity. -- John Donne

"Toss it out like an avocado gone bad, rotted from the core. I did not see God in it."

But take the soft roundness of a spoon and gently scrape away its blackened surface -- perhaps deeper than its surface -- and see that there is ripe and bright green flesh beneath what seemed irrecoverable. Bless it with the juice of one lemon and preserve its youth for consummation.