This is really hard to write as I listen to the new Alchemy sampler over and over again, thinking well... now I really created something worthwhile, which general listeners can really get into. How does it happen?

The moment when floodgates of creativity open and you know, without thinking, which note goes after the next. To me the flute is the ideal vehicle for this because the sound moves so fast there is no time to get tense or hold back. I know no way other than forward. Some noted physicist compared the process to Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle (see Jazz of Physics)... well, I think that's stretching. (Admittedly, something musicians do.)

Above: my musical business card.

​My writing is like this as well, thanks in no small part to cranking out 30 pages of Internet-ready prose each day. (Asimov eat your heart out) I can write anytime, anywhere. You are never lost for words when your ability to buy food, pay off bills, and have a somewhat comfortable life depends on having some to spare. 

I am really getting into the groove with Arisugawa Park,  it is no longer an albatross around the neck, some work of art (turned to product, thanks to agent) that I hope to monetize. If no one sees me as an artist (least of all those who know me best... or are they just following "rational" influencers, same as those who got us to this place) then I guess I will simply be one.

​As I polish Kaori's incremental progress in following leads into the disappearance of Steve Loewe, I create an entirely new section that is almost pure thriller––David dealing with two hard men intent on extracting him from Eve's apartment, which he has returned to to retrieve.... stuff.

And Hayao, in his midnight jazz way, recreating scenarios of kinpatsu's love hotel killing of her lover (which we know was a setup). God I love complexity... getting it right, so the reader cares, is a quest for the ages.  Now may I present to you Arisugawa Park 1.20 - Book Marks.

Chiba 5:10 pm

Back at the station, Kaori took in a surprising lack of static from above. Yamahito’s henchmen had not even raised an eyebrow when she delivered her report on the altercation on the landing––was this reprieve or merely lack of ammunition? The god of small mercies was with her at least, and maybe this was related––Yamahito was nowhere to be found. Which did not mitigate her pounding headache and deep-seated desire to pursue no further police business. She closed her eyes, waiting for the jagged edges to dissipate.

 Drawn into a vortex of near sleep, Kaori pulled herself awake just before her forehead planted itself on the desk surface. She opened her drawer and examined the business cards she had found in Steve’s apartment––despite the inroads technology had made into daily life in Japan, exchanging business cards was still a hard and fast custom. This was how you defined yourself to others, the cards received with respectful bow, both hands grasping the corners. The card not placed directly into the wallet but left on the table, to be admired and studied, forever associated with the giver. That was the theory, at least––reality involved mountains of business cards thrown in some random closet or drawer. Kaori handled these particular thick-stock cards with care. Lacking cell phone, laptop, or other electronic device, they were her one tenuous connection to the world of Steve beyond Yuki.

Kaori took up the business card Yamahito had found––Kennichi Mizota, Triangle Biotech. It was a little after five, should be okay to call. She dialed the number. The phone rang several times before being answered with a curt “moshi moshi.”

“May I speak with Mr. Mizota?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Kaori Inoue of the Chiba Police. I’m looking into the disappearance of an English eikaiwa teacher, Steve Loewe. Do you know anyone by that name?"
 
“No,” the abrupt reply.
 
“We found your business card in his possession and were wondering how he might have obtained it.”
 
“That’s a good question. I’m not in the habit of giving my card out to random gaikokujin––”
 
Kaori paused a moment, processing another iteration of the word of the day, foreigner–– polite version at least–– “Do you know anyone who might have been acquainted with Steve and given him your card––a colleague perhaps?” The dull throbbing at the edge of her temples was returning.
 
“I have no idea,” he said cooly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the last stages of a project I’ve been working on 15 hours a day for the past three weeks––I really must go.”
 
“Sorry to have taken your time, please let me know if––” A click and a buzz. Despite having detected an odd note of surprise in his initial greeting, Kaori crossed Mizota off her list. Unless the investigation took a turn, became a bona-fide missing persons case, she had no right to require his presence at a police interview. In any case, she would not be the one to conduct the interview.

Massaging her forehead, Kaori considered whether it was really necessary to call Jonathan Wales. Dealing with another random surly person, even on the phone, was the last thing she needed. This moment of indecision lengthened into minutes, her head dropping toward the desk, until resolve finally kicked in. Sitting up straight, she took a deep breath and dialed the number on the card. The voice that answered was not quite Australian––British, maybe, and unusually well mannered. For one, he remained on the line even after she had explained her business.
 
“I’m as concerned about Steve as you are. I’ll be glad to assist you in any way I can. Just name a time and I’ll make space in my schedule. Steve was––well, I wouldn’t call anyone you’ve known only a few months a good friend, but there you have it. I’d like to know his whereabouts as much as you.”
 
​Kaori hung up with an distinct sense of relief. The smooth tones of Jonathan Wales’ voice remained in her head as she retrieved overcoat and hefted bag with Steve’s lesson plans over shoulder on her way out the door. She was rather looking forward to a visit to the Tokyo offices of Edu-Act Publishing tomorrow.

All rights reserved Damon Shulenberger - EnduranceWriter.

I am really excited about these new recordings I completed with the studio cats at Alchemy in Dumaguete. The sound is amazing and we really jammed. Three tracks so far: Lost Upward, Zuma Time, and City (Fly Away Home).

I am currently putting these huge WAV files together (via the audio-joiner cloud compression chamber) and plan to have a little preview sampler up on Soundcloud soon.

Part of a prospective concept album, the sampler includes:

Lost Upward - A multilayered flute and bamboo stick re-imagining of the mountains of Mindoro where the tribal vibe reigns. Monkeying around in the studio for 30 minutes generated this. Valuable lessons learned from the music masters at Malasimbo: Get to earth. 

Zuma Time - A combo of Miles Davis' Jack Johnson-era outtake "Ali" and some earworm techno refrain - boiled down to a Bob Marley "Live at Leeds" 1973 jet propulsion. First 3:29 of an 18 minute jam, just to whet appetites.*

City (Fly Away Home) - The song that came to me as a complete vision, in Manila - wanting to get far, far from the urban jungle. This is the instrumental architecture of what I hope will have many versions, including a proper roots reggae and a proper Lokal Bar tribal version. If I could interest Jahpoy in doing the deep QC Bamboo Lounge version... The version here is very jammy, way more upbeat than I imagined the song. But with tasty bass, drums, and guitar. Think Santana meets early '80s Police.

#endurancewriter

* Strictly my own––that was what uploaded onto the USB and the owner of the studio just passed away, they are about to have a wake there––may be days before I get the rest. 

All rights reserved Damon Shulenberger - EnduranceWriter.

I was reading this Guardian article on literary festivals with a groan in my stomach. Yeah, I have a stomachache. No hidden meaning. 

The bottom line is that I have never been drawn to literary types. Those who seem constrained by an admiration for poesy or prose. I'm sure there are writers out there I would like as humans. But within a fixed construct? Not so much.*

I've attended two Literary gatherings, one in Mexico and one in Marin. Good enough people. I did not have a real moment, because so many seemed so intent on rehashing the past. And adulating things that gave me a shrug. 

Would it be accidental if I never attended another literary gathering? Not so.

If I had time and there was a human who said "Hey Damon, let's go. Bring your flute"? Sure, I'd be there in a heartbeat. I appreciate good grooves.**

The hardest thing I have getting my head around is that writing may not be enough. Arisugawa Park may have had a lot of work put in by an original prose artist, but the chances of it getting noticed are small. Since I realized that ultimately I control it via whatever medium presents itself for dissemination, I have been walking around liberated and shit.

Best writing ever. 

In related news, Ari Park 1.20 - "Head on Desk" is near to publication. Full revelation: the only AP episode so far that gets a lot of hits is the one with the woman in the shower, obsessing over her dead lover (for good reason, as it turns out). Note to self: no more sudsy scrubbing.  Let's keep this novel on the under, for the truly elite.

​#endurancewriter

* A lot of worthy musicians had the same problem with Isle of Wight. Which is not to say amazing music was not created.

​** Santa Cruz, '93.

Life at the edge may result in a specific type of narrative that is not sustainable. Choose your poison; drugs, debt, war wounds, oppression––I would not want  that experience which tindered the brightly diminishing illumination of so many . 

On the flip side: life in one's comfort zone results in a very different type of book that can be equally confining. The sense of someone unwilling to venture far from mother's folds. Oh coddled, hip, and snarky youth.

The kind of writing I specialize in is forged of habit––there is the hardness of literary bones that have been broken and reset, many times. Yet there is an essential softness, an openness to new thoughts and experiences, that I protect like a swaddling baby. The moment they take away my ability to imagine in an unaffected way, I will die.

Many days only habit takes me through. Words disseminated this way fall into a void. Yet they are there to find resonance when and if they will. To be discovered by some semi-frozen body, mind in ooze mode but intact, accessing data from aeons ago on a prison ship heading for Tetra 5. That is something.

#endurancewriter 

I've got the zeitgeist blues and I must say it is a miracle I am still with you. Forgive me for confiding, but the elixir last night rattled my nerves, I saw second Jesus coming in a third-rate nightclub, Orifice Band revamping the hits.

The waterfront I cover is still stinking, the trash piling up anywhere there is a spare vacant lot or cover of verdure. Develop the hell out of it, I hear you say––it is so damn trashy. We despoil paradise on a daily basis through the simple process of owning and neglecting what we own, in preparation for the remunerative inevitable.

Look forward to the day when the capital is in place and the city arises, all cold and gleaming new for a while, till it becomes rundown like all the rest. Who can you really trust in this world? Not many and that is hoping for the best. 

​#endurancewriter

Whatever it is that makes you alive, hair standing on edge––don't give it up. When you get a bit older it should still raise a pulse. Once the experience is gone you can get by on the mirage of a pulse, which is known in certain circles as memory. The writing may get a bit hazy, cannon fodder in the distance. But don't give up. 

Pick up a new thing, making sure it builds on the old thing without intruding. Roll dice, bones if you have them. 

Expand the edifice if no one is interested. Stimulate yourself. Surround yourself with protein bars and shakes. As you build the edifice, don't forget the orifice. From dust were we sprung, unwilling–– into dust we shall slither, half alive (killer on the road). 

Experiment. Chicken ala Stephen King. Minced Sonnets. Wok-fried Twitter. Put it all in a blender. Do not push go. 

When you have enough decent writing to impress a few literary folks (mainly, as I said, yourself) shoot yourself in the foot. Throw a chair. Be the heel. 

Arisugawa Park 1.19 - Mountain Guru Climb coming sooner than you think.

#endurancewriter

Back to David, attempting  a surprisingly dangerous errand for Eve at her central Tokyo apartment. This section of Arisugawa Park took a while to get right––basically I added about 2/3 of the material straight new, as part of the cloud novel editing/expansion process. This book may be 1,000 pages by the time I get through. Tolstoy and Frank Herbert eat your heart out.

Osaki, 4:15 pm

David stood up from the park bench and started back the way he had come. An hour had passed since his initial sweep of Eve’s apartment and the tops of buildings were encroached in shadows. There was a faint aroma of grilled fish, a sense of preparation for evening meals. Reaching the intersection of Eve's street, David stopped in front of the conbini where he had read manga and took out cell phone, engaging in a phantom conversation. Feigning distraction, he took a long careful look down the street––the empty car was gone, another one parked in its place. The dark tinted car was still in the same spot, the grey smudge of cigarette ashes seeming to cover a wider area. There was a strong chance that Eve’s apartment was being watched––walking in through the front door was not an option.

David continued past the conbini without turning onto Eve’s street and made a quick left onto a smaller parallel street. Just as she had indicated on the scrawled map, he found a thin strip of grass between two houses, an unobtrusive pathway leading to the building’s trash cans and gas meters. He hefted himself up and over the low railing, not pausing long enough to let anxiety set in. A breath of relief that the curtains were fully drawn, suppressed jitters as he took stock of his exposed position and realized there was only one way––up. 

The floors were of a more compact dimension than those in the U.S.––standing fully extended on the six inch-wide rail, he could just manage to heft himself up and over the side of the next balcony. On the second floor balcony the curtains were also closed behind sliding glass doors. He took a moment to shake out suddenly aching arms, sweat running down his neck. Three more to go––you can do this.

David hefted himself up another level, this time feeling a deeper ache of muscles as his arms neared their limits of elasticity. Perched on the landing, he glanced down long enough to make sure that no one was in the alleyway. Focus. Balance was now a primary concern––he had reached a height at which a slip would be highly injurious, if not fatal. 

Heaving himself over the fourth floor balcony, David confronted half-open curtains, lights on, the sliding glass door thankfully shut against late afternoon chill. If someone was inside, there was no discernible movement. No choice but to push through––balance carefully, don’t rush, one last floor to go. Positioning his feet on the rail without giving his aching muscles quite enough time to rest, David let go for a vertiginous moment, swaying precariously as he reached on tiptoes for the balcony above. Off balance, lurching, he grasped the bottom of the rails and gathered strength for one last pull upward––no guarantee that his feet would find a tenable hold on the rail again if his hands slipped. 

Muscles extended well past apparent limits, a sudden jolt of adrenalin gave David strength to lift in a way that his arms alone would not. Then he was up and over, tumbling awkwardly onto Eve’s balcony floor. Taking a ragged series of breaths as he lay on his back, unwilling to move through the ache of rag doll arms, he finally straightened into a crouch and peeked over the side. Nothing stirred from the street or the surrounding houses. What a bitch, he muttered through heaving breaths, not quite sure if he was referencing the climb he had just been through or Eve, for putting him up to this. Whatever the case he had made it, the hard part was over––on the way down he would simply let gravity do the work. Just as Eve had indicated, the balcony door was unlocked––thanking Eve inwardly for small miracles, feeling slightly guilty despite himself, he slid the door open and pushed through curtains into darkness.

The apartment slowly took form as David let his eyes adjust. Not wanting to risk turning on the light, he spent the next fifteen minutes groping through drawers and closets, gathering up a haphazard selection of clothes, shoes, and accessories. He felt a growing sense of alarm––the one item of real importance was missing. The laptop was not where Eve said she had left it, on the bedroom dresser. There was a possibility that it was hidden somewhere in plain view, given the necessary darkness, but the likelier explanation seemed that Eve was a known quantity to organizations able to get through locks. Stuffing the items he had set aside into his backpack, he dug out a piece of pull-behind luggage from Eve’s closet and packed the rest.

Ready to get a move on, David thought he could just about manage the descending series of balcony landings by swinging and dropping the luggage to the level below, before letting himself down behind. About to head to the balcony, something in him resisted––wary of heights under the best of circumstances, the idea of clumsily maneuvering a heavily packed piece of luggage five floors to the ground stuck in his throat. Danger aside, each swing-and-drop maneuver would make a considerable noise––resonating thuds were a serious matter, considering that the apartment below was likely not empty.
 
Refusing to accept that he had to leave the carefully packed bag behind, David cast stubbornly for another solution. There must be a way…. perhaps… what would have been suicide going up might just be feasible on the way out. Even if there was a stakeout in progress, there were a dozen units in the building. Whoever was watching would have no way of knowing he was coming from Eve’s apartment… there was no accounting for who had gone in or out today, unless they had been watching the place since well before the love hotel murder. Beyond that, they were on the lookout for a specific person––foreign identity aside, he was not blonde or female.
 
New rationalizations materialized as David opened the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of small plastic Yakult bottles, gulping down one and then the other.  If someone had already been up in the apartment, going through Eve’s belongings––as the missing laptop suggested––they would assume it was still empty. There were a few ways of enacting a crude disguise that came to mind––a club-ready baseball cap, glitter-embroidered BOY, in Eve’s closet. With sunglasses further disguising his identity, he might look weird but not foreign. A million reasons for taking the easy, non-vertiginous route, and yet…. 

David decided to risk a look through the front window, check whether the car had moved. Maybe it was gone by now, revealing the idea that someone was waiting as pure paranoia. David walked to the window and took a long look out through shuttered blinds at a car still planted across the street. The tinted side window was open a crack, there appeared to be a wisp of cigarette smoke coming out. He waited for the window to roll down further––if the cigarette was not yet butt end, there must necessarily be a tapping out of ash. Sure enough, the window slid open a quarter way and a stubby hand engaged in the practiced act of flicking out cigarette ash… he could not make out a face but the movement struck him as habitual, a gesture of waiting. David widened the gap between the blinds slightly and took out cell phone, zooming in as far as he could. He made out a half shadowed face through the slant of opened window. Maybe with some pixel-dust exposure and contrast adjustments he could make out an identifiable face––for what purpose exactly, he was not sure––it was not as if they could go to the police with evidence––still…

His eyes focused on the screen, fingers pinched into a tight photographic zoom, David did not immediately notice the figure making a beeline to the car from conbini, sandwich and coffee in hand. When he did identify the man on the screen David caught his breath––law enforcement from his gait and demeanor, and not one of the neighborhood police-box variety. Before he could take his camera away from the blinds, he caught the practiced sweep of the man’s eyes up to Eve’s apartment. Their eyes seemed to lock for a second, although, given the darkness inside, David could not tell whether he had been spotted. Whatever. He needed to get the hell out of here. Glancing through the blinds one last time, he saw the man speak into the now halfway opened car window, his posture one of studied calmness, gaze directed almost purposefully away from the apartment. Paranoia flashed––if he was trying to lull him into thinking he had not been spotted, he was doing a good job

Through the force of habit, David hefted Eve’s luggage onto the balcony before realizing he did not have time to take it down. He looked down at the substantial distance to the ground and gulped. Take your time, catch a couple breaths… even if you have been spotted they will try the front entrance first. At that moment he became aware of a figure in dark suit on the street, sprinting past the narrow pathway. He crouched… sure enough, 10 seconds later, the figure moved methodically back and scanned the back of the apartment, as if apprising that this was the correct spot at which to move in. 

Going strong for more than a year, the Chasing the Sun cloud music series continues with another Full Moon jam at Forest Camp in Valencia. This time a very different sound from Igoroots, more rooted in dub and 1980s electronica than in roots pasta vibrations.

When I look at the varied playlist I've created through jams and solo excursions, I cannot help but feel a twinge of pride. Something between Alan Lomax and a flute-crazed soulist, I've managed to get out of my musical shell and engage with varied musicians, as I engage my tribal soul. Van Morrison eat your heart out.

To get beyond the bullshit that was the music industry I was exposed to (as a teenage listener) in the late 1980s,  find meaning in the roughness of improvisatory questing. The tracks may not get a lot of hits, but they are there whenever I want to recall twists on my journey. Always finding time to create when the mood is right.

It is not easy as an amateur to get up on stage with seasoned professionals––but it seems more natural, the more you do it. People smile, listen, even clap.

I recently settled into the recording studio Alchemy for a few hours to record a proper version of "He Made His Way Through the City (Fly Away Home)," which I first introduced as an off-the-cuff a cappella thing within the Flute At Wild Lagoon joint.

Although I did write a slew of original songs on the acoustic years back (a couple are up on Soundcloud) this is the first fresh song that has come to me in a good long while.

I woke up humming "Fly Away Home" at the MNL Hostel in Makati one morning, thinking it was a Bob Marley tune. Conveying a need to get out of the city and back to somewhere with a few trees, gentle people.

It was only after careful evaluation that I found the song belonged to me. Working with a couple ace musicians I was able to convey the mood and tone of the song––think early 1970s reggae with Curtis Mayfield fills and some obligatory tribalism. We have apparently created an iTunes-ready hit single––if this was 40 years ago. Final mixing and instrumental overdubs to take place tomorrow.

​#endurancewriter

They say that blogs are going the way of the dinosaur. It is only because it is not in the interest of the mobile providers to construct an intuitive way of storing and managing traditional websites.

The app is for those large enough to generate mass installations (think financial institutions, major media organs, Twitter, and Facebook––prospectively Fabric). Conversely it is for those small enough to grind it out. Tweet and retweet, rinse and repeat.

If you are are not on the hamster app mill (The Feed) your audience is intrinsically limited. 

There is value in this. Gary Snyder's well known poetic formulation, "I hear no news" has been in my mind lately. 

If we are talking quality, it is visitors who make the effort to find and receive who are worth considering. As an individual artist, why consider any other type of reader your audience––?

Those I would choose to communicate with are the seekers climbing the mountain, to speak with the cave-dwelling guru who utters Far Side one-liners. 

(Tradition has it that that which is perceived as a one-liner may be a carefully thought out question, held in until it spontaneously manifests––the cleansing ritual of internal laughter).

Which begs the question, am I the seeker or the wisdom dispenser (bumper sticker version: better Pez than Prez). As Whitman would have it, I am manifold, containing all possibilities, immense.

To be human is to hold untold potential within a bacteria-harnessing husk. 

Art: To turn a phrase, to make the well-worn new again. To harness the newly experienced. To stop consciously creating and spin wheels in one's sleep. Carve doughnuts into the loam of existence.

To read or not to read. Which word follows another? Once the scales have been mastered, the questions are immense.

Arisugawa Park 2.19 - Balconies, in which David climbs an urban mountain to speak with the Guru (himself), is very near to completion. Thank you for getting onto the "cloud novel" bandwidth, if not bandwagon. If you are enjoying, now is the time to tell a friend.

Two hands clapping are better than one.

#endurancewriter

What happens when all the hits, the likes, and shares settle? What are we left with? An existential question I know, one brought on simply by reading the Guardian each day and realizing how many featured articles are self-referentially circling around the same meat. The shifting nucleus of Internet traffic, the amorphous apps that dictate so many social and economic interactions. 

When I lost my iPhone at the Malasimbo Festival a couple months ago, I told people smugly how refreshing it was to be liberated from the connected now. They mostly smiled politely and went back to their screen sliding and glass-tapping ways. At the time, there was a bit of 'sour grapes' to my declaration, I'll admit. If everything has a reason, losing a smartphone must also have one. 

Two months on I am truly one of the converted to this idea of mobile device-free living.* It is insidious the way that app communication sneaks into our lives, making all other forms seem tiresome, imperfect. We can control the selves we portray and receive, given a proper framing device. Much harder in person. 

This adherence to an older code, a primitive calling, is in some ways paradoxical. I readily admit I am an online worker who produces reams of contracted written content each day, for dissemination throughout the search engine kingdom. The saving grace is that I do not need more than the slightest pulse of an Internet signal to receive and transmit my intellectual wares.

The next barrier I am setting in my sights is life without Youtube. That is, to live in a place where streaming-level bits per second is not available. Harder and harder to find, even in the developing lands beyond Westeros. 

Call me Serpico, eternally stuck in the early 1970s, stubbornly playing the tribal flute with those who will join or listen. Those whom I come across by accident rather than through  algorithmic providence. Through association with those open to a good conversation or a fight, I maintain a sense of balance and belonging on this here earth, not head-tethered in a fractious void. 

This is all a major teaser for my next Chasing the Sun flute recording, which I am currently piecing together from jams and nature's noise.

​Ice. 

* I do carry an unbreakable $20 touchpad samsung with simple text capabilities.