Arrivals and Departures

Since I have spent an inordinate amount of time in airports this year, I have had a song stuck in my head called "Arrivals/Departures" by an old Sacramento duo called Squish the Bad Man. The pair played together for a few years when I was around town. Former members of Squish still create music I think. Last I heard, Dave Middleton was making fine recordings as a producer and guitarist with people like Jay Shaner, who I think is grand. And Julie Meyers is in Los Angeles writing and performing stupendous material.

But I digress, because this is really supposed to be about birds. And I think both Dave and Julie would appreciate that, too.

I watched the Snow Geese and Sandhill Cranes arrive on a Saturday evening, while the moon was rising above Bosque Del Apache. I weaved my way through the handful of folks on the flight deck. I heard side conversations, some in Japanese, but most grumbling in plain English about how cold it was and how we were expecting the sky to be flooded white and grey with a million birds. It didn't occur like that, more like waves coming through like a busy airport. Cranes particularly took their time in small formations, sometimes just a family of three or so. It wasn't until the first hundred or so Snow Geese (with Ross Geese interspersed) arrived that it felt like an event.



I arrived the next morning at 5:00am, where a bus took a group of us further into the refuge and away from the general public. In the dark, you could hear the chatter of a reported 45,000 snow geese, 6,000 sandhill cranes, and 10,000 mallards. The audience was more patient for the mass flight, perhaps lulled by the early morning, as we were all seemingly out of our routine.

When the first flock of thousands took flight, they passed right above us.




"Arrivals/Departures" the song always hit me a particular way. I think it's called melancholy. It's sad and beautifully so. Or maybe it's beautiful and sadly so. This year has brought about quite a few Arrivals and Departures around my neck of the woods. You would think I would be gleeful at the Arrival of the birds at sundown. And I was joyful. But it was marked by the thought of "Aww..now the big trip is over for them." Some birds, like certain hummingbirds, double their weight before the flight down South, because of all the energy that is expended. Nature calls them into the world, and they follow, steering by stars and on flyways learned from their elders. And when it's over, what is left to do with all that instinct, I wonder?

Then the Departure. The flight is stunning, as nature intended. Still, those of us land-locked and gravity-prone are left to the quiet of the pond as the sun rises. You miss them when they're gone. You notice the space that they once filled. And you can't wait for their return.

Truthtelling

I'm certain I'm an amateur birder. In terms of really knowing my stuff, I'm nowhere near where other people on my weekend birdwalks are at. I get this anxiety when people come up to me and ask me what I see, feeling I'm on a Sibley's Guide gameshow.

But I think birdwatching taps into a very honest part of me these days. In years past, I would scramble in my mind to somehow present myself or my knowledgebase in sophisticated ways, feeling as if I don't want to be found out as a fraud. This has happened with day jobs, music, current events. But I've discovered over the years, and this year in particular, that in the best interest of survival and energy conservation, that if you tell the truth and speak to the details you are certain of, you'll be just fine.

So even in something as innocuous as birdwatching, if I'm asked "What is it?", I hear in my mind "What do you see?" And I try to capture details I'm sure I see - the colors, the headshape, whether or not the tail feathers pulse, the stripes and spots, twitches, if the bird is on water or on the ground or atop a perch. Tell the truth, and you'll be just fine.

At the festival, I was trying to identify a bird over the pond. It was black from a distance, soared over the water solo, perched low on a log along the shore, had a white stripe on it's tailfeathers. Probably a Northern Harrier, according to the Bosque Del Apache brochure coupled with my Sibley's Guide information. It would be sexy if it were a Common Blackhawk, as they are rare around these parts. But probably not.

I spoke to a birder on an observation deck about this sighting. He was a volunteer for a group called Hawks Aloft, which participates in conservation and research for native New Mexico birds. I told him what I knew. We deduced together that it was probably a Northern Harrier, even though the Red Tailed Hawks can be dark as well (which makes identifying them somewhat problematic). He said to me "Well, you seem to know your hawks." Nothing could be further from the truth. But I was telling the truth about what I saw, and that was taking me further than I had ever been.

The Welcome Wagon - Festival of the Cranes

Cranes symbolize lots of things - peace, longevity, happiness. I read that they can fly at over 20,000 feet to traverse mountain passes, and therefore they are viewed in some cultures to be intermediaries between heaven and earth. The dance they are famous for is a mating ritual or flirtation of sorts, to attract a mate they will keep for life. And they usually lay two eggs each season, but the parents only fly with one, as the other one doesn't survive long enough to reach flight stage. That's why you can usually see them flying in threes.

The Festival at Bosque del Apache attracts folks from all over the world. As I drove to Socorro last Saturday, I was certain I had much to learn from these creatures, that they could unlock some secret that could drive me to the end of 2010 with purpose.

Upon my arrival to the wildlife refuge, I pulled over to see a small group foraging in a pond on the way to the visitor center. It was a welcome sight for me. But my arrival didn't have the same effect on the cranes apparently.

Home Visitation

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, the one that feels the most genuine of all, trumping Christmas, Flag Day, and even Birthday. I've been going home every other year since moving, alternating between visits in November one year and then December the next.

Going home for visits is an evolving experience, as every trip has a different quality. I really missed it the first few times, wondering why I ever left. That feeling slowly shifted to feeling displaced and floating between life in the Central Valley of CA. and the Middle of Nowhere, NM. Lately, I've truly felt like a visitor - that I can view the movement and pace and atmosphere of a place that will always be home, but just not where I have my life.

I had a nice visit with my drummer loverman of a friend, Nate, and we spoke about music and friendship. I remember great get-togethers at his place in Sacramento on 26th and J Street. He had an amazing attic with no heat or air conditioning where we'd rehearse with frozen fingers or drenched in humidity. We drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and talked about which gigs we couldn't secure in town.

He had an interesting experience recently, seeing a local show. Our little contingent always felt a bit on the fringes of the scene, for years and years. But at this show, he received acknowledging nods and had some sweet conversations. The mood felt right and he told me he realized how we all took care of one another and that he has been part of something for over a decade.

That's much of how I feel when I visit. When you're in the thick of it, there's this sensation of never feeling like pieces fit. Then perspective presents itself and you realize how everything did fit, in ways you couldn't see back in the day.

With this, I've driven the streets this visit seeing the trees turning color. Enormous piles of leaves on the ground that I now want to play in, but barely noticed when I was a resident. The morning air felt refreshing. I thought of songs written over years and understood why I wrote them, why recordings were good in some respects and shitty in other respects. But mostly, I thought of why things just couldn't be any other way, not back then as an awkward singer-songwriter feeling insecure at an open mic, and not now, as a 35 year old trying to find her way back to songwriting in the middle of the holidays, at the end of graduate school, and at the beginning of a new career.

Bird List - A Not So Big Year

I've been reading a book called The Big Year, about folks who bird like crazy on a particular continent and identify as many birds as they can see within a 365 day time period. I think the record holder according to the book counted over 700 birds in one year.

It's taken me 11 months to get to 57. Mind you, I also went to grad school for all of 2010, doing fieldwork mumbo-jumbo for the past 5 months. I don't think any novel is about to be written about my particular birding story. But I wanted to get warmed up for a weekend of purposeful birding by typing up the list.

I'm going to be surrounded by real birders, serious folks who have the cool vests and ergonomic binocular straps and field guides in the waistband of their technologically-fibered pantalones. I'm hoping to graduate from birdwalk groupie to a real novice this weekend.

1. American Coot
2. American Kestrel
3. American Robin
4. American Wigeon
5. Ash Throated Flycatcher
6. Barn Swallow
7. Black Chinned Hummingbird
8. Black Crowned Night Heron
9. Black Phoebe
10. Blue Grosbeak
11. Canada Goose
12. Cassin's Vireo
13. Cedar Waxwing
14. Cinnamon Teal
15. Common Merganser
16. Common Throated Warbler
17. Common Yellow Throat Warbler
18. Cooper's Hawk
19. Downy Woodpecker
20. Great Blue Heron
21. Green Heron
22. House Finch
23. Kingfisher
24. Lark Sparrow
25. Lazuli Bunting
26. Lesser Goldfinch
27. Lincoln's Sparrow
28. Mallard
29. Mourning Dove
30. Northern Flicker
31. Northern Shoveler
32. Northern White Thrasher
33. Osprey
34. Pied Billed Grebe
35. Red Tailed Hawk
36. Ring Necked Duck
37. Roadrunner
38. Ruby Crowned Kinglet
39. Ruddy Duck
40. Say's Phoebe
41. Scrub Jay
42. Snowy Egret
43. Spotted Sandpiper
44. Summer Tananger
45. Tropical Kingbird
46. Warbling Vireo
47. Western Flycatcher
48. Western Kingbird
49. White Breasted Nuthatch
50. White Crowned Sparrow
51. White Winged Dove
52. Willow Flycatcher
53. Wilson's Snipe
54. Wilson's Warbler
55. Wood Duck
56. Yellow Rumped Warbler
57. Yellow Warbler

The Sandhill Cranes are coming to town

I got out of fieldwork a bit early, so I decided to see what the birds were up to at the Rio Grande Nature Center. It was early enough to see the action under the dimming afternoon and finally the cold in Albuquerque let up a bit - either that, or I am just getting used to winter coming soon and the dry cold. It sometimes takes me a while I've noticed since moving up a mile high.

I've gone back and forth with birdwatching for about 5 years now. I have tried to remember what got me into it. It's not like I've ever met anyone who showed me this particular hobby or passion. I suspect the introduction wasn't all that dramatic. But the thought of devoting time to watching something out there, in the world, and learn nuances and technicalities and details on something so seemingly inane as birds called to me. My nature leans toward visceral and spastic - sounds and movement and communication that are so not nuanced or graceful. I needed something to bring me down to the ground, stop for a moment, and notice the world.

So birdwatching it is.

And I suck at it. I've devoted a good part of 2010 taking it in, and still can't get my waterfowl down pat. But it's one of the few things I really enjoy in an otherwise mindboggling year.

Still, I saw some sandhill cranes today. I climbed up a sandy bank. Their call is unmistakable, a cooing that sounds like a heart that is soothed and recovering quietly. I'm going to their festival this weekend in Socorro. I saw a few dozen flying overhead in formation, headed south. They're dressed to the nines and ready for the party.

A Typewritten Time

I wasn't sure why I started this blog over the weekend, why this forum makes sense at this time, or what it intends to do with me. Even the title, A Thousand Keys, seemed at best haphazard, since I was finishing up the song on its anniversary date of being written.

I was studying at a local coffeeshop. I approached the counter for a cup of decaf coffee. My ears have been run ragged from hours of headphone monitoring and a sinus infection. I felt myself moving through the day in a haze, or bubble.

Then I heard a familiar sound over the din of conversation and overzealous cooks and silverware on plates and espresso machines. I turned around and sitting in a booth was a teddy bear of a man with his enormous paws hammering at an old Royal typewriter. It was gorgeous.

I loved looking at his typewritten page. I saw all his ex'd out mistakes, since there's no "delete" button. I thought of recording, the waveforms and digital information, firewire-driven. Many recordists pine for the days of analog and reel-to-reel, when edits were spliced with a blade and a hopefully-steady hand. These were days limited in available track space, so you had to commit to ideas or the hopping band had to get it right in one take in front of a singular microphone. Even the happy accidents had a home, served a purpose that would eventually become part of recording mythology, or would make you want to commit suicide if you played the LP backwards on your turntable. Lots has been written about this, in magazines like Tape Op and related discussion boards.

This typewriter seems to me a remnant of a forgotten time, when we operated with purpose and intent. The machine is made to power one through the writing process - instant feedback and a multisensory experience! Proprioceptive input from hitting the keys, the rhythm of writing egged on by a hypnotic tippity-tap and a Pavlov reward bell at the end of each line, the zip of the carriage as you drag the lever to the left, eager to keep going. I wonder who I'd be if I were born in a decidedly typewriter generation, when it was harder to delete an action or thought. Maybe I wouldn't be the generalist I lament. Maybe I would be more focused on one endeavor at a time, forced to look at mistakes rather than dragging it to a recycle bin on the lower left corner of my screen, or disabling a blog or highlighting an entire waveform and disposing at will so I wouldn't have to hear of my aural trip-ups.

In this regard, A Thousand Keys seems like an apt title after all. The Royal typewriter was a timely visitor - reminding me to avoid the temptation to delete.

Scenes from Recording 11/13/10

Hobo Recording Studio. I was surprise how much I could fit into my Ireland suitcase, actually.

Waveforms. Ones & Zeros - The stuff Music is made of.

House Finches (or HoFi's, as the bird world says), taking a birdbath during a break. The water had to melt from being frozen over in the morning.

Does Protools make me look fat?

To Share or not to Share?

I completed 12 hours of recording, which resulted in 3 demos. I wrangled The Big Sky in the wee hours of the morning, wishing desperately I had a pedal steel around, and for that matter, a pedal steel player somewhere in sight. It's one of the first songs I completed when coming to Albuquerque, and pedal steel has a nice way to communicate warmth yet desolation - the desert life.





I posted the demos to my Reverbnation page, and then to my Facebook page this morning. It's a struggle, because I know these songs aren't really, truly finished. There's a better engineer with better know how on how to capture these ideas and mix it properly. There are better players who could execute parts more like how I imagined, especially that elusive tone dilemma. And there is a pedal steel player for The Big Sky. Why not wait until then? When is the right time? When are these pieces done? Would I even know?

When I first woke up, I wondered why we share music, or any art for that matter. Again, it's another aspect of the process that I, in essence, hate. I feel I'm calling attention to myself and I'm not sure I want this part of my world, well...in the world. But it seems a necessary part of the process. I just wish I knew why I know that.

Ear Fatigue or Ear Fat?

Ear fatigue is a pretty interesting concept, how you can just drone on endlessly from take to take that eventually the frequencies start to fade. As I downloaded this picture, my shorthand title for the jpeg was "Ear Fat," which I found to also be accurate, because I imagined loads of gooey adipose tissue behind my eardrums. I have sinus problems so I'm not sure if what I hear through these beat up headphones is really what is being recorded. Perception is so torturous at times, but can also save your ass, too, if you can trick yourself into believing something, anything in your life, is better than the reality of your situation.

I was pretty surprised about how fast I set up, in probably 20 minutes. I had to bring my entire computer - monitor, peripherals, et al., because my version of ProTools is so old I can't load it on my laptop. "A Thousand Keys" vocals are done I think and I had some old background vocals from March 5th (?!, really?) that seem to work, though I had to tweak a high harmony.

I'm heading into this afternoon for guitar tracks. I have trouble with this part, because no matter how much I read on the topic or even just play with dials on the amp or guitar, I'm just lousy at trying to dial in tone. I avoided electric guitar for so long just for this detail alone. It never translates like you think it should, no matter mic position or pedal tweaks or pickup switch position. Perception. Again.

Unpacking

I wrote a song a year ago. When I was browsing through my laptop files, I came across a demo I recorded dated "A Thousand Keys demo 11-13-09".

Has it really been a year? I thought to myself.

I am not by nature a persistent being. Overall, I'd describe myself as a generalist in life. Broad, sweeping knowledge of a variety of adult pursuits - occupational therapy, running, birding, tennis, and yes, music and songwriting. Even this blog is representative of piqued and then waning interest, as it is my third attempt in this short year. I invest just enough time to get a glimpse of what it might mean to be good at something and then - a wash of boredom or fear or shifting priorities.

Some of the things I have mastered include at staying up late, overscheduling my days, and smoking, but these traits aren't very functional.

I could watch another day fade before me, as many weekend days do. But last night, I sat on an ottoman, calendar open, and decided to bring over recording equipment to my housesitting assignment, and celebrate A Thousand Keys 1st birthday by perhaps pushing her along, asking her to grow up or to figure out if I have grown 365 days older.



I packed my recording tools this late morning and started to think that I really should document this day. I have read inspirational books on the creative process and the documentations of the experience by better artists and writers. I have watched enough viral TED videos on the meaning of happiness and mastery of craft.

But as I packed my equipment, I thought to myself "You know what? I really do hate this." That's something no one ever really says out loud, it seems. I hate lugging gear. I hate the feeling of inadequacy and being a novice. I hate when parts don't fit into a recording, and when ideas fail. Yes, I hate it and I think I should.

But I do it anyway. Sporadically and awkwardly.

So I'll unpack the gear now, in this co-worker's home. It has nice acoustics and lots of sunlight. And I'm sure I'm going to hate it. But A Thousand Keys is a year older. And so am I.