Monday, July 28, 2009, 0100hrs.

It’s past midnight and I’m overstimulated. I spent the morning at www.tedgreene.com; it motivated me to get out my battered copy of Chord Chemistry and start developing a plan of attack on this mysterious beauty we call music. For a while now I’ve been doing much more listening than playing; records have stolen all of my money and most of my time. All day today I studied and practiced; now I’m feeling worn out and restless. But I scribbled down a long list of short– and long–term goals for myself, and I’ll be back at it tomorrow. I’ve never been a person to organize my life with lists, but lately I’m finding them useful. They help me focus.

I’ve been loving The Best of the Blue Note Years, a basic collection of Thelonious Monk’s oblique compositions and improvisations. I’ve also been grooving on Bitches Brew and Big Fun, both by Miles Davis. Then we’ve got Song of Songs from classical vocalists Stile Antico… songs of God that could lay an army down. Also Pieces of Africa from Kronos Quartet. It sounds like African choruses arranged for strings and percussion, but I haven't done my homework on that yet.

My favorite recording lately has been “Transblucency” from Duke Ellington. It’s an impressionistic piece with an eerie theremin-like nonverbal vocal melody. The tune's supposed to evoke “a blue fog you can almost see through.” The clarinet plays counterpoint and Ellington adds percussive piano splashes here and there, grounding the otherwise ethereal textures.

I’d like to gush about many more albums and recordings here, but I’ll spare you for now. Suffice to say that when I listen to music, that’s all I do. I sit and listen. And there is no shortage of richness or nuance in the musical wild.

Last week I went down hard on the granite doorstep of a dress shop downtown while serving a former Miss Maine her coffee. I landed totally prone: half on the step, half in a puddle, wearing it all with sugar and cream. Got some big complex bruises out of that one (still wearing it on my thigh, right below my ass) and fucked up my elbow temporarily. Ms. Maine tried hard not to laugh, but you know how it is when somebody pulls an impromptu Buster Keaton act at your front door.

I’ve managed somehow to satisfy my own work ethic tonight. I sit here at a loss: I’ve practiced, I’ve written, I’ve read, I’ve listened to some great recordings, I’ve eaten more fruit salsa than the body is meant to take in one sitting. I suppose it’s time to turn in. Goodnight and thanks for reading this.