Many thanks to the thousands of listeners to my musical posts over the last couple of years. Here are a dozen of my favorites, mostly posted previously, but scattered all over the place, so you don’t have to scroll.
These are the latest bits from November. Soon I’m going to post the “Most Listened To” pieces, so you won’t have to go looking. Enjoy.
This one is an awkward conversation between the piano and the strings. Not an argument, really, but coming to terms.
This is a lament for all the people I’ve lost. Turn the volume down. It’s a lament.
Here are a couple of openings for stories. If you want the whole story, you have to beg.
1. When Dan got assigned to type Dr. Cozen’s thirty thousand page biblical study manuscript it was the worst day of his life. Why, oh why, did he brag about being a champion typist? Who cared if he out-typed everyone but the teacher? He could have kept it to himself.
But the day he had to start typing the theological drudge was the same day that Mr. Tinsley’s lion got loose.
2. Dan’s family had grown accustomed to the question “Where am I?” after five years of Granddad’s presence in their home, having come from the Nebraska sand hills to the mountainside Ranch. That, along with the daily queries concerning the whereabouts of his long-dead cousin Mabel in “Mussoura” and the sod house he’d built in “Nebraski,” framed the reality in which he moved. His brain riddled with plaques, distant memories bubbled up constantly, but the last two decades were gone forever. Dan was just sixteen, perplexed to see him so confused.
But the question, “Is it okay if I wipe my nose with this tissue?” caught Dan off guard.
Here is another new piece. This one is meant to be very loud and powerful, so crank up your volume on this one! See it if means anything. It does to me.
This song is just a pleasant little digression. Enjoy if you can.
Here are two more compositions. The first is a hard-hitting thing I call, “Four Rooms,” or, sometimes, “Four Conversations,” and the second is one of the saddest songs I ever wrote. I call it, “When You Are Old.” I couldn’t ever write words to it, beyond, “When you are old, and lie next to me, and your skin is cold, I’ll take your hand, I’ll hold you tightly, wishing you’d carry me into the sunset with you.” Hope you like them.