Sun is setting early here. It's 339PM and it feels like dusk. The sun peeks out on occasion. Clouds are hanging low and moving fast. And I miss you.
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Blog
Rants, Raves and Reflections from the mind of a musician.
FUKUOKA: 845PM
The reflection of shuffling pedestrians dances along the ever moving surface of the river. Patrons covered by transparent plastic tarps sit at street food counters. The air is dense with the sound of in-between-bite banter. They laugh from the bottom of their bellies, which are slowly and steadily becoming fuller. It is Thursday night - and the imminent end of a stressful workweek beckons them to talk a bit louder, and drink a bit heavier. They greedily slurp noodles and gulp sake until they've had their fill, and then they stagger home, one day closer to a weekend reprieve.
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CHESAPEAKE, 4:23PM: PAGES
The den, the main gathering room of our home, was surrounded by wood-paneled walls and adorned with heavy wooden furniture -- the kind of stuff you might see on a very old ship. There was a coffee table fashioned out of wooden planks, finished deep brown. Dad's whiskey glasses, and those of his guests, would rest on these planks and leave dark, wet circles behind as evidence of their revelry. Years later, wearing the clothes of an older man, in the quieter daylight hours, I would come to sit at this table and read and write. The laughter and thumping of feet would still reverberate, bouncing about the walls of my memory.
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HARAJUKU August 2015
Tokyo, Japan -- August 5, 2015
I spent the blisteringly hot day wandering the streets of Tokyo's Harajuku district with my old friend, Pat. I saw the sights and heard the sounds. I rode the (amazingly clean) Japanese subway. I took my phone and made a little film. The music is mine, a song I composed called "Small Talk" from the Workday, Water Baby Music Volume 1.0 album.
Workday, Waterbaby Music, Vol. 1.0 by Nate Smith
https://itun.es/us/jP5Lq
ENJOY
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NEW YORK, 2:38PM: SKIP STEP
The mechanized whir of a slow moving escalator belt - punctuated wth percussive clicks and shrieks of squealing metal - plays an odd metered rhythm that my mind can't quite grasp. I slow my breathing and lean in to listen more intently, my fingers tap reflexively, my neck moves involuntarily. I feel myself rocking back and forth as the machines play their vamp -- seemingly monotonous and unending. As I stride, I try clumsily to step in sync with the rhythm of these moving parts. I fumble until I realize that one step must be made shorter than the others in order to keep time. Without mercy, the rhythm dictates how my body must react. I discover that the meter isn't "odd" at all - it is just uneven: a beautiful, broken, uneven shape. Each time it cycles around, I admire its beauty more and more.
More than once, I ask myself "Who built this?"
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