Hawk Medicine

A spiritual motivation. Words fail, left behind to do their damage.

To cry out, only one can hear.

For no reason a joy surfaces, the sounds that spurred it take on new meaning. The ability to reach beyond presents itself. But the choice is always there.

Let all pervade and I lose myself. Let the past present and future pull with their temporal powers, I am here no more.

To have tasted it after so long fills the void that was there. It seemed unending, now it is vanished. I will know myself when I am there.

Every time it washes clean, it grinds down the filth I put there. Every time I renew and see the lies and the truth, the possibilities, the endless choices. The only solace lies in that moment.

Born in the U.S.A.

Strung Out

San Francisco

It's the street after street filled with damp cars parked outside all night -- streaming ships of the city unable to find a harbor . . . It's the dreamy silence of Pier 44 on a sunny mid-afternoon -- where customs officers, white-capped longshoremen and shipping officials quietly play cards over a counter to prove that men can get along with each other . . . It's the endless rows of cabs lined alongside the places where people gather -- Yellow feet for the ones tired out in the work of having fun . . . It's the 7:30 p.m. flurry of humanity around the tiny neighborhood movie houses -- tinsel palaces of escape for those who slave by day in the temples of Big Business.

It's the smoky, all-night pool parlors of North Beach -- fraternity houses for the lonely brothers who've been black-balled by life . . . It's the Saturday tea dansant at the Palace -- where the most beautiful girls in the world gather under one roof not to be admired, but to admire Artie Shaw, who only looks the other way . . . It's the Old San Francisco restaurants -- with their ancient waiters serving the same old food in the same old way because tradition is their master and an increasingly cruel one, too.

It's the cold, refined handsomeness of outer Pacific Avenue, which picks up its skirts daintily and stares haughtily in another direction as the street swings into a less correct district . . . It's the frenzied burst of activity on the city's playgrounds each Sunday morning -- the people joyously breaking their backs on the Day of Rest, losing their heads in an escape from six days of headaches.

It's the parade of Willkie buttons in the noontime eating places -- men wearing their political hearts on their sleeves . . . It's the blind, hatless banjo player feeling his way smilingly along Post in the afternoon sun -- making tinny music for the ears in the midst of women making silky music for the eyes . . . It's the indescribable conglomeration of beauty and ugliness that makes San Francisco a poem without meter, a symphony without harmony, a painting without reason -- a city without an equal.

-Herb Caen

Petit Savanne

There’s something universal about how people take information in. And even more universal is the language of music. I was reminded of this again while visiting Dominica, when my Mom and I had the chance to visit the Petit Savanne elementary school in Delices. I only hope that the joy and inspiration we got from sharing in their lives for a day was equal to what they felt.

The kids were forthcoming and had very generous personalities, and we all learned from each other. They had plenty to tell us, but that day, sounds and smiles were enough for a thousand words. Now it's a picture's turn.

Musica Puertorriqueno!

I've been listening to Puerto Rican music for years, and I finally got to see some up close, live. The rhythm of the clave and drums in the tropical air made a little more sense. The bassist danced and smiled as he kept melodic time. Horns harmonized, the singer improvised, the dancers floated on feet tied to the elastic, ecstatic sounds of Puerto Rican salsa. Si!

New Music From My Turkish Friends

This is a recent concert including Filiz Kaya Bodur, a Klasic Kemence player whom I met while in Canakkale, Turkey. She played a few songs for me then, an outstanding, rare experience. The Klasic Kemence is an Ottoman era instrument, played by stopping the strings with the nails instead of the fingertips. I am drawn by it's vocal, singing quality, and it's nice to hear her beautiful playing again. The gentleman is playing the baglama, a lute derived instrument in wide use throughout Turkey and the Middle East.

Grup Fuzuli - Zeybekler from Onur Türkyılmaz on Vimeo.