Jonathan Senigaglia

September 10, 2019June 8, 2021

Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

This music was performed by Edward Cohen.

Today I finished writing the second movement of my second sonata.

I worked on this for some time, trying to express something I can’t quite put into words. About times that were hard, when I found my self searching fruitlessly for a summer bird during the dead of winter.

All the main melodies throughout this piece started as song.

You know how it goes when you have a lot to say… too much to say. You try to squeeze too much meat into the sausage and it starts to look a bit unseemly. The feelings and hopes I wanted to express in the music could never fit into one song.

So I exploded the music and let it wander and quest for 20 minutes. It still feels like a song to me.. but now it spins and wrangles and waits and wants, and pulls you along and along like a river.

This is music about healing. Healing is not pleasant when it’s actually happening. Sure it feels great once it’s done, but the process itself is slow. It requires intense patience, and often comes with pain. So this music isn’t about being healed, but about healing.

This music is about waiting, about not giving up, about continuing to strive for optimism even when prospects remain dreary. The length of the music allows it to take on a new character: it stretches out before you, unabashedly long, extending into the distance, as if we are standing on a hill top on a cold, crisp day, looking out over endless miles of fields, trying to make out a little puff of smoke in the distance. Is it a cloud, or perhaps chimney smoke?

We start to get a sense of the power of time. Each little musical episode represents a day, a unique moment in one’s life. Day after day after day passes. There are beautiful moments and challenging ones, but they all pass eventually, and soon become part of a larger tapestry, where common themes emerge.

Life is like this as well. As we deal with each day’s unique challenges and surprises, it can be difficult to see the common threads that tie our lives together. However as the years stack up, those common themes become steel cables that tether us to our loved ones, and to our shared histories. The daily episodes fade in terms of importance in comparison to the mountainous weight of the passing years. In the end these main themes, these shared memories, these bonds become everything that matters to us. They become the vision we have created of ourselves and what we believe in: who we are, what we have stood for, what it means to be a family, what it means to love, what we feel we have accomplished, what we hope to pass on to our children, what we wish to be remembered for.

So in a way this is a song about life and about building a life with someone. It isn’t a clean story arc (neither is life). At times the music swells, other times it falls. But most times, like life, it just goes by, stacking up over time, adding on more and more experiences, until by the end you’ve lost track of some of it. The whole thing blurs together, with certain important moments standing out.

And there through it all are the main themes, the bonds that tie us all together, growing stronger with each passing moment.

August 2, 2019August 2, 2021

Of Dream and Delirium

A few years back I played keyboard for my friend Danny Saucedo on his album “Of Dream and Delirium”. You can hear the whole album below. All music is by Danny Saucedo.

<a href="https://dannysaucedo.bandcamp.com/album/of-dream-and-delirium">"Of Dream and Delirium" by Danny Saucedo & the Elaborate Fantasy Machine</a>

Check out Danny’s other music here.

May 31, 2019December 10, 2020

Romance

“Romance” from Violin Sonata No. 1

What can I say about love? It never turns out quite the way we expect. Then again neither does life. The years stack up, and the weight of all that time compacts our experiences, until we are forged into something new, like metamorphic rock. A good marriage has the same effect. As the years pile up, any cracks that once existed between us are compressed, our minds and outlooks are reformed, until after a while we have been reshaped, remade together.

This music chases love, chases life. It races ahead, keeps the fire lit. It’s hunting, sniffing something out, hungrily searching through the night. The years fly by, but the fire stays lit. It’s a dance, a celebration, though a frenetic one.

While you listen, stomp your foot! How about one loud clap! Why the hell not!

I have a limited vocabulary for describing how it feels to experience love, real love, so I have to compose instead, to try and capture the uncapturable. This music gives just a taste of that. Love has many flavors, and this is one flavor I’ve tasted, and I want to share the feeling with the world. It may not always be pretty, but it tries hard to live passionately, to expresses itself freely, to communicate something meaningful. It doesn’t give up, even when challenges arise. It reaches out to feel a connection. It aches for it.

I have experienced this love. In fact, I experienced it today, while watching my wife walk across the room. Sometimes my heart starts pounding for no reason, and this music appears inside my brain. Makes me want to spin around and around, until everything is blurry. The life we have built, the family we created, the years and shared experiences and adventures are all stacking up before me, until all I can do is marvel at the structure.

Keep living! Keep love in your heart, and share it with someone whenever possible. Stomp and dance and spin. And also, lay silently on your bed in the afternoon with the person you love, and watch the sun’s rays poke through the blinds. Compare the sizes of your feet, tell a silly story, share what’s in your heart. Grow together, always growing.

April 23, 2019December 9, 2020

Quiquern (Complete)

Quiquern is a five movement piece of music for piano, two flutes, and a clarinet, based on a short story by Rudyard Kipling.

Here is .

1. The People of the Elder Ice – Read about this movement here.

2. The Dog Sickness – Read about this movement here.

3. Quaggi (The Singing House) – Read about this movement here.

4. The Magic Songs – Read about this movement here.

5. Hunter’s Return – Read about this movement here.

April 16, 2019December 10, 2020

Quiquern: The Magic Songs and Hunter’s Return

“The Magic Songs” from Quiquern

This next fragment of Quiquern is called “The Magic Songs”. Famished and delirious, Young Kotuko and the girl set out alone into the blizzard to find food for the starving village. As the dark and the cold and hunger devour them, the two children rave and hallucinate, unhinging themselves from the realm of men and into the realm of gods. As they descend, they sing songs of magic, songs buried deep in their memories, in their blood. Their voices rise and fall with the frozen wind.

And through this silence and through this waste, where the sudden lights flapped and went out again, the sleigh and the two that pulled it crawled like things in a nightmare — a nightmare of the end of the world at the end of the world.

The girl was always very silent, but Kotuko muttered to himself and broke out into songs he had learned in the Singing–House — summer songs, and reindeer and salmon songs — all horribly out of place at that season. He would declare that he heard the tornaq growling to him, and would run wildly up a hummock, tossing his arms and speaking in loud, threatening tones. To tell the truth, Kotuko was very nearly crazy for the time being; but the girl was sure that he was being guided by his guardian spirit, and that everything would come right. She was not surprised, therefore, when at the end of the fourth march Kotuko, whose eyes were burning like fire-balls in his head, told her that his tornaq was following them across the snow in the shape of a two-headed dog. The girl looked where Kotuko pointed, and something seemed to slip into a ravine. It was certainly not human, but everybody knew that the tornait preferred to appear in the shape of bear and seal, and such like.

It might have been the Ten-legged White Spirit–Bear himself, or it might have been anything, for Kotuko and the girl were so starved that their eyes were untrustworthy. They had trapped nothing, and seen no trace of game since they had left the village; their food would not hold out for another week, and there was a gale coming. A Polar storm can blow for ten days without a break, and all that while it is certain death to be abroad. Kotuko laid up a snow-house large enough to take in the hand-sleigh (never be separated from your meat), and while he was shaping the last irregular block of ice that makes the key-stone of the roof, he saw a Thing looking at him from a little cliff of ice half a mile away. The air was hazy, and the Thing seemed to be forty feet long and ten feet high, with twenty feet of tail and a shape that quivered all along the outlines. The girl saw it too, but instead of crying aloud with terror, said quietly, “That is Quiquern. What comes after?”

“Hunter’s Return” from Quiquern

This is the final music of Quiquern. At the end of the story, the dogs lead the boy and girl to a crack in the ice where seals are coming up for air. They kill as many seals as they can carry, and hurry them back to the village. The people rejoice as famine is averted just in time. They sing and light candles made of seal fat.

Kotuko and the girl took hold of hands and smiled,
for the clear, full roar of the surge among the ice
reminded them of salmon and reindeer time
and the smell of blossoming ground-willows.

Even as they looked, the sea began to skim over
between the floating cakes of ice,
so intense was the cold;
but on the horizon there was a vast red glare,
and that was the light of the sunken sun.

It was more like hearing him yawn
in his sleep than seeing him rise,
and the glare lasted for only a few minutes,
but it marked the turn of the year.
Nothing, they felt, could alter that.

This ending seems to think of itself as a happy ending. But that’s not really what it is. It’s not a sad ending either. The village is well-fed for today, and their way of life continues the way it has for a thousand years. There is something truly magical about that. But what happened this winter will happen again. The village’s survival is always balanced precariously upon a precipice. As the camera pans out, we are reminded that all around the happy village is an endless frozen desert, cruel and dark, and so very cold. A single warm ember in a vast field of ice.

Perhaps that is a metaphor for all of humanity. Everything that we do and everything we care about and everything we’ve ever created and everything we remember and cherish is but a tiny ember in the blackness of space. How hard we all try to keep it lit; how vast and cold and uncaring is the universe.

Does that mean we shouldn’t live our lives to the fullest? Of course not! It’s even more reason to appreciate life. The feel of a baby’s skin on one’s cheek, the laughter of a life-long friend, the warm embrace of a lover, the taste of well-prepared food, the memories of good times, the hopes and dreams and aspirations we all nurture in our hearts; these things keep us warm and snug through the winters of life, even if deep down we know that the dark need not attack us directly to see us finally defeated, it need only wait.

February 4, 2019February 27, 2022

A Letter to My Father

This evening I added the finishing touches to a piece I composed back in 2008, “A Letter to My Father.”

“A Letter to my Father” from Jackdaw

This piece is actually the third movement from my string quartet “Jackdaw.” Therefore at its heart it is based on the life and writings of Franz Kafka, like all the other music in that quartet. However this music has special meaning for me as well (also like all the music in that quartet). It feels especially meaningful during this current time in my life, when my own interactions with my father have become so very strange.

Kafka’s Letter to his Dad

When Kafka was about 36, he wrote a nasty letter to his dad. Apparently his father Hermann was a pretty difficult guy, constantly ridiculing Kafka for being a weakling, while refusing to care one bit that his son was a genius. Kafka’s stories are real mind-benders. The realities they portray are just “off” enough that they feel like they could be real life. One can recognize the landscape, envision oneself living in that world, but something in the reality is very wrong. Sometimes it’s hard to put one’s finger on… but impossible to ignore. Like the work of H.P. Lovecraft, the stories have the power to make one doubt one’s own world, to make one doubt mankind as a whole. It’s delicious writing, and frankly still horrifying to this day. Despite young Franz’s clear talent, Poppa Kafka just didn’t respect his son, and he made that known at every opportunity.

By age 36, Franz was tired of Hermann’s crap. He busted out some paper and really let Dad have it, for 45 hand-written pages. In his own way, Kafka believed that this letter would help heal their relationship, but in reality the letter was full of complaints, accusations, and invective. He plumbed the depths of his own hurt, and wrung the emotions out onto the page. If the letter is to be believed, Hermann was a toxic and narcissistic hypocrite, an abusive tyrant who never gave his fragile son even a kindly word or friendly look in all his life. The writing is heart-breaking and so very relatable, ripe as it is with a certain timeless pain that has been felt by so many sons across so many generations.

In one episode, Kafka describes a traumatizing experience from his childhood: one evening at bedtime he was begging his father for some water (perhaps even being a bit bratty about it), when his father, always a large and intimidating man, burst into his bedroom without warning and, in a rage, grabbed the small boy and locked him outside on the balcony with nothing on but his thin cotton sleep shirt. Kafka writes:

I was quite obedient afterwards at that period, but it did me inner harm. What was for me a matter of course, that senseless asking for water, and the extraordinary terror of being carried outside were two things that I, my nature being what it was, could never properly connect with each other. Even years afterwards I suffered from the tormenting fancy that the huge man, my father, the ultimate authority, would come almost for no reason at all and take me out of bed in the night and carry me out onto the balcony, and that meant I was a mere nothing for him.
Franz Kafka, from Letter to His Father

Not only is this a sad story of parental mismanagement and emotional scarring, but it is also such a great insight into why so much of Kafka’s writing features nameless, faceless authority figures who carry out irrational sentences with a total lack of empathy or emotional connection. Moments that feature characters like that are some of the more disturbing vignettes from his stories; they make it all too easy to picture oneself being dragged away by faceless agents of the state who have no sense of human morality or concern for life. Kafka was able to translate his tragic daddy issues into terrifying metaphors for what it’s like to live in modern society. Now THAT’S how to cope with a bad upbringing.

Let’s all write letters to our dads!

Funny story: I had to send a letter to my own father recently. Mine was not as nasty as Kafka’s, nor was my father anywhere near as abusive as Hermann. But father-son relationships can be all varieties of strange, and mine definitely falls on that spectrum. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice it to say that at pretty much the same age as Kafka when he wrote his letter, I felt compelled to write a letter to my dad that I wish I didn’t have to write. It delivered the message, though I’m not sure it did anything to heal our relationship.

When Kafka completed his letter, he hand delivered it to his mother, and asked her to bear the letter to his father. Her mother read it once and immediately decided to hide it forever. As much as Kafka might have hoped his manifesto would help heal old wounds, his mother felt differently, and refused to take any part in provoking the monumental explosion that would likely follow should Hermann ever read it. My own letter was delivered directly to my father, though I’m actually not sure he read it. One can never know these things when direct communication becomes impossible.

Long story short, this music ain’t just about Kafka. I hope someday someone writes about how I skillfully took my familial pain and transformed it into timeless art we can all relate to. Whether or not that ever happens, I will say this: writing the music always makes me feel better.

January 11, 2019December 10, 2020

Letting Myself Fall

“Letting Myself Fall” from Serenade No. 1

One time I let myself fall. Down, down, down into the mud I went, slowly, ever so slowly, until my head was under, and I was lost for a time.

January 9, 2019November 20, 2023

My favorite non-fiction books (and audio books)

The Armada

by Garrett Mattingly

Image result for armada mattingly — I’ve read this book twice, and both times I just marveled at the skill of this writer. This history reads like a novel, packed full of fascinating characters. The star is Queen Elizabeth I, a politically savvy and multi-faceted operator, who managed to maintain her decades-long political grip on England in an age where women were not often allowed into the halls of power, now forced to fight her greatest battle for survival against her relentless nemesis, the pious and humorless King Philip II of Spain, who will stop at nothing to conquer England and force Catholicism on her people. This author spent years in the archives of multiple European cities, personally translating the letters and battle plans he discovered there, building this story that would become his masterpiece. His love for these characters and these events is apparent on every page.

The Meaning of Life: Perspectives from the World’s Great Intellectual Traditions

by Jay L. Garfield

I entered this course with a mild interest in philosophy, and left it with a profound hunger to consume philosophical texts, and to think consciously about how to live a fulfilled life. I’ve never been so inspired to read and think about this subject, though I suppose I have been pondering it casually since I was a kid. I took a philosophy course in college, but only now am I beginning to understand how philosophy can be used as a tool to understand the world, the universe, the self, the point (or lack of a point) of it all. My hat is off to this gifted and eloquent teacher. I will listen to this again I am certain. I also have much reading to do. Ok I’ll just say it: this course may have changed my life.

Gandhi and India Trilogy

by Ramachandra Guha

When the Covid-19 virus hit the US and we all had to lockdown, I decided to finally research a man I had long wanted to understand: Mohandas Gandhi. These books did much more than tell me about his life; they expanded my mind and invited me into a completely different way of seeing (and existing in) the world. Gandhi still has so so much to teach us all: about how to somehow feel so much love and passion and connection with all of humanity that you’d be willing to sacrifice your body to spread peace, while also embodying detachment and desirelessness, a man without anger or pride, a man at peace with himself and universe. Gandhi took these dual, perhaps opposing, outlooks to their extremes throughout his life. Was he successful at creating a more peaceful world? Well that’s a question worth discussing.

How the Earth Works

by Michael Wysession

Histories (The Persian Wars)

by Herodotus

This is a masterpiece! The author, Herodotus, is often nicknamed the “father of history” (or alternatively, the “father of lies”), and when you read this book it’s easy to see why. On the surface what makes this book remarkable is that it’s the first systematic historical chronicle in the western world. Herodotus, who composed this history around the year 430 BC, tells with vivid detail the stories of all the major battles of the Greco-Persian wars, including the battles of Marathon, Thermopylae, Salamis, and Plataea. But at heart this book is so much more than a history. Herodotus traveled extensively through the Greek world, and everywhere he went he collected stories, interviewed priests and historians and seers, visited battlegrounds and famous monuments, and most importantly absorbed the cultures, customs, and myths of the diverse peoples he encountered. He then poured all of this knowledge (both factual and mythical) into his *Histories*. Thus his tale opens up the entire ancient world to the reader, rendering it personal, intimate, and real. One can luxuriate in all the local myths, oracular visions, religious customs, and superstitions that permeate the story. The author clearly believes in the visions of oracles and the awesome power of the Greek gods, so when he tells of prophesies that were proven true, or desecrations of temples that angered the gods and invited their wrath, or battles that were won due to the favorable omens obtained through human sacrifice, it becomes impossible for the reader to disentangle fact from fiction in his narrative. But the writing is so delicious that the reader need not care about this! Instead it is best to let oneself become completely submerged in the story, and take the entire narrative as it comes. The author’s knowledge of the ancient world (and even of the back-room dealings of the various monarchs) borders on omniscient, which makes him the perfect guide on this whirlwind tour of a long-lost place. Though perhaps it’s not so lost as one might think. The characters within are at once so fascinatingly foreign, and yet simultaneously so relatable, so human. When the leaders of Persia debate whether democracy is superior or inferior to monarchy, the arguments they make (on both sides) are still potent today; they still ring true (including the critique of democracy). When the best laid Persian war plans are spoiled by poor weather, the soldiers who attribute the outcome to divine intervention sound much like modern believers who see divine planning in every historical event. When ancient politicians take bribes, or parents flee with their children from war zones, or enslaved tribes revolt to regain their freedom, or powerful oligarchs lobby for government hand-outs, or leaders in times of crisis choose pride instead of compromise and so perish, I see the modern world in ancient dress. Though much has changed, much remains as it was. Humans are still just as human today as they were then, and in many ways their problems are our problems: How can we best govern ourselves? How can we best share scarce resources? When is it best to compromise and make common cause with our enemies, and when is it best to fight? In times of war and crises, when we are beset by danger on all sides, what is the best and most ethical path for one to take? How can one live a good life, find happiness, and survive the seemingly random perils that each person faces in life? These questions all still matter today, and we as a species still do not agree on the correct answers. What a fun book to get a person thinking! I never thought a book this old would hold such sway over me, but that’s the power of timelessly excellent writing.

The Devil’s Broker – Seeking Gold, God, and Glory in Fourteenth Century Italy

by Frances Stonor Saunders

The Great Hunger – Ireland 1845-1849

by Cecil Woodham-Smith

This book was so moving, it inspired me to make this series on the Irish potato famine:

The Reason Why – The Story of the Fatal Charge of the Light Brigade

by Cecil Woodham-Smith

Image result for Cecil woodham smith crimea

The Cambridge Companion to Marx

edited by Terrell Carver

I felt quite sad to reach the end of this lovely book, though also immensely satisfied with the experience of reading it. A collection of gifted philosophers/writers gather to examine Marxism from a variety of angles. These are not all Marxist scholars, so we hear critiques of Marx’s vision as well as agreement. But all agree that Marx gave a contribution to the history of thought, and how we interpret that thought can reveal many hidden truths about humanity and the world we inhabit. How does moral philosophy challenge Marxist thought, and how does Marxist thought challenge moral philosophy? How did Marx’s theory of history become so mainstream that modern historians who are very far from being Marxist still unwittingly deploy Marx-style materialism when explaining how societies change and adapt over time? Can Marxism go hand-in-hand with feminism, and what are some areas that Marxist feminism can be expanded by future thinkers? Is Marxism a science, and if so then what part of it is scientific: the critique, or the prophesies, or both? Has Marxism been debunked by the events of modern history (such as the fall of the Soviet Union), or does it still have much to offer us? Or perhaps it was only Lenin who was debunked, but Marxism lives on? So much to ponder, if one cares to explore a controversial field of study. This book is for readers possessing a mind already open, who wish to expand it further. Caution: one must enter with the understanding that this book will not draw the conclusion that Marxism is irrelevant, or that capitalism has ultimately been proven victorious for all time and forever amen. While these authors don’t slavishly praise Marx (and they certainly don’t treat him as a saint beyond reproach, nor do they respect the sanctity of Marxist orthodoxy as an unchanging and timeless series of truths), they all recognize that the school of thought he founded still has much to offer our sick sad world. In fact, while reading this book the thing that struck me most about Marxism was its sheer applicability. Despite the failures of many “Marxist” experiments during the 20th century, the Marxian worldview still holds many keys to understanding what really makes society tick, and why we humans keep finding ourselves in such serious jams (I’m looking at you climate change). But even thought Marx helps us understand our jams and how we wound up in them, that does not necessarily mean that Marxism holds to key to solving them. I hope to study many more sources to find out any way this worldview can contribute to a workable solution to climate change. I consider Marxism a premier lens to apply when seeking to understand our world, but remain skeptical that Marxism can rise above being a system of critique, and finally assume the mantle of “problem-solving tool”. But anyways, this book put me on the right track in that hunt. Highly recommend!

Unsettled – An Anthropology of the Jews

by Melvin Konner

The Crusades – The Authoritative History of the War for the Holy Land

by Thomas Asbridge

The Wars of the Roses – The Fall of the Plantagenets and the Rise of the Tudors

by Dan Jones

Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era

By James McPherson

Great Ideas of Classical Physics

by Steven Pollock

Image result for great courses classical physics — Dr. Pollock is a truly gifted teacher. His explanations of the major discoveries in classical physics are so clear and understandable, that he allows you to focus on just how mind-blowing the laws of physics really are. This course really opened my eyes, and taught me many new ways to see the universe. I want to know more!

Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind

by Yuval Noah Harari

Image result for sapiens — This writer is a master at making connections, tying together different branches of science and sociology and archeology into a picture that explains who we are, how we got here, and what drives us. His writing style is forceful, even aggressive at times, but brilliant throughout; he paints such a convincing and captivating picture of the way he sees things, it’s tough to argue with his logic. His views can be controversial at times, and he presents his ideas with a lot of attitude, which make this book a real fun read. I’m not certain that Harari is spot-on with all his theories, but don’t let that stop you from allowing this book to change the way you see humanity.

Main Currents of Marxism, Volume 2: The Golden Age

by Leszek Kołakowski

This book is a masterpiece of philosophical summary and deep-diving analysis. Kolakowski has an uncanny ability to break down and explain even the most complex philosophical arguments in a clear and concise manner. At times he plays the part of omniscient referee, diligently sorting the good ideas from the flawed ones. But never does he simply tell us that a writer’s theory is wrong; instead he identifies the holes in it and pries them open, exposes them to the light, lets the reader decide what to think.

In this book his main target is Leninism, a philosophical tradition absolutely bursting with contradiction and double-talk. Kolakowski’s even-handed tone and mind-bogglingly high level of erudition suggest that he did not intend to write a polemic against Leninism. But in the end Kolakowski’s even-handed philosophical critique of Leninism amounts to a withering indictment of Lenin’s method, his philosophical rigor, his honesty, and his contradictory actions once in power. Lenin is revealed to be a boor, a liar, a tyrant, a power-hungry despot. Kolakowski does not draw these conclusions explicitly, but instead allows the reader to do so. Perhaps Kolakowski is a masterful propagandist who possesses the ability to incept these opinions into the reader’s brain, but I don’t really believe that. Instead he just exposes various thinkers’ theories to the light, that’s all. This doesn’t mean Kolakowski is a constant critic; his analysis is so much more subtle and productive than that. If a theory has enough qualities to withstand the author’s scrutiny, it comes out stronger for it in the end. Kolakowski analyzes many Marxist ideas and traditions throughout his magnum opus, and a good portion of them – those based on sound reasoning, honest argumentation, and deep philosophical reflection – show their quality under Kolakowski’s scrutiny. It just turns out that when we shine this same light on Lenin’s theories, they wither, crack, and fall apart. They are revealed to be hollow and decrepit. (Oh dang I’m being too polemical again).

Kolakowski sees Lenin’s dismantling of Soviet democracy as the original sin of Bolshevism. Lenin’s critique of bourgeois democracy hinged on the notion that modern democracy is a sham: the propertied classes (who overwhelmingly benefit from capitalism and bourgeois law) trick the exploited masses into believing they are sovereign in order to pacify them and prevent revolution, though in reality the workers are largely disenfranchised. In other words, the masses are led by our culture, media, and propaganda (all of which is shaped by the ruling class) to believe in freedom, democracy, individualism, and the sanctity of private property, but all of that is a veil over their eyes that prevents them from noticing that they are slaves. This sentiment, borrowed wholesale from Marx, is compelling in itself. Here’s the sad irony: once in power Lenin banned all democratic expression (including dissent from the proletarians he claimed to speak for), imprisoned his political adversaries, and disallowed any political party but his own. A man who rose to power by arguing that only communism could bring authentic democracy to the masses turned out to be a despot who was so desperate to hold on to power that he fully and permanently disenfranchised the masses. To make it worse, while doing so he claimed that the new Soviet system was a more authentic form of democracy than a parliamentary system could ever be. Kolakowski punishes Lenin for this betrayal of his own principles, simply by laying out the actual actions Lenin took once in power. Turns out that listing Lenin’s achievements is enough to reveal his naked opportunism and staggering hypocrisy.

Kolakowski’s main argument, if one must be identified, is that Bolshevism did not deteriorate into totalitarianism because of Stalin (as is often argued, especially by Lenin sympathizers), but instead because totalitarianism was baked into Lenin’s philosophy from the start, despite all the noises he made about wanting to create a better democracy. Before he was even in power, Lenin fantasized about liquidating all his political opponents, using violent coercion to keep all dissenters in line, and dictating to the masses what was and was not in their best interest. He desired to create a new permanent elite (the communist party officials), but dressed it up as if he was actually abolishing all elites forever, as if his new elite would better represent the masses than could parliamentary democracy. Lenin described in detail his dream of conducting mass confiscations of all private land and surplus (see Lenin’s State and Revolution), and imagined that the bulk of the people would not only celebrate these actions but assist in the mass thievery. In reality, Lenin’s first economic policy of requisitioning “surplus” grain from peasants (or what the requisitioners considered to be surplus) led to widespread mistrust of Lenin’s new state, as well as bribery and coercion. The people did not want to give up their product to the state, and the officials in charge of snatching the goods were highly susceptible to bribes. Their only carrot for making the people obey was threat of force, and use of Lenin’s massive police state infrastructure. Meanwhile all political activity that did not “further the socialist revolution” was anathematized.

This was not Stalinism, but Lenin’s original ideas and policies, the tactics that he used when he (Lenin) was in charge. Modern lovers of Lenin argue that he truly fought for the good of the people, and that after his death it was Stalin who corrupted his ideas and policies, warping them into a totalitarian, violently repressive, hyper-bureaucratic police state. But Lenin was the true founder of Soviet totalitarianism. Kolakowski lays this bare without becoming overly angry in the process (something I would struggle with). In the end, his critique of Lenin is devastating, yet really he lets most of Lenin’s ill-conceived ideas and shameful policies speak for themselves.

Want more book recommendations? Go here.

November 20, 2018February 20, 2021

One time I lost everything I’d ever written. This is what I wrote next.

“Allegro” from Violin Sonata No. 1

The date was September 24, 2006, my 22nd birthday. Erica and I decided to have a picnic in Meadow Park, share a bottle of wine, and take a nap. It was during this wine-induced nap that somebody walked into our house, in the middle of the day no less, while we slept peacefully in the bedroom, and stole my laptop.

This particular laptop happened to contain all the music I had ever written up to that time. Was it backed up somewhere? Of course not. After all, my laptop had never been stolen before, so why would I need to back up everything I’d ever created. Nope, it was all right there, and someone stole it right out of my house in broad daylight. I never saw it again.

The thief did not take our DVD player. He did not take our television. He did not take my car keys or the stereo either. He didn’t even take the laptop’s power cord. Just the laptop. And of course my very reason for living.

When I awoke from my cat nap, it took me a good half hour to realize the laptop was gone. I won’t try to put into words what went through my head except to say this: all of my art was destroyed that day. I had no website, no hard drive, no printed copies. I felt like a victim of fire. I was completely alone with my grief.

Ok I was able to salvage a couple things. While ravaging through my belongings looking for any sheet music I could find, I miraculously discovered some printed pages stuffed down into a drawer. The pages were the original versions of what would later become the 3rd and 4th movements of my first piano sonata. I was also able to copy down from memory the scraps that would later become the last movement of my first string quartet. Other than those tidbits, everything else was taken forever. My entire career as a composer up to that point was a blank page.

It took me a long while to get into the headspace of composing again. When I finally did, for some reason this jolly music is what came out. Maybe it was the sense of hope that even though I had lost all my previous work, I could still write something new, that my life as a composer was not actually over. As I continued to write this, my hope only continued to grow. By the time it was done, there was a part of me that was glad I had lost my old work, which is a weird thing. In a way, it was a freeing experience to lose my student work. It allowed me to try new things, and not feel weighed down by whatever direction I had chosen in the past. I think that’s what this music is trying to say.

November 5, 2018May 25, 2021

Music that reminds me of drinking absinthe in Prague

This music is the first movement from “Burning”: a trio for piano, clarinet, and cello.

Excerpt from journal.
Dated July 27, 2012 – Prague

On a recommendation from a bartender, we headed toward a pub away from the city center, on some twisted alley or another. Our bellies were full of dumplings and gravy, our hearts starving for adventure. We waltzed into a well-lit bar and took a drink of the scenery.

The air was viscous with cigarette smoke. I immediately felt as though I were deep deep underwater, in a pub at the bottom of the sea. The rowdy conversations of the crowd drifted slowly toward me; from a distance I could see the words coming my way, yet still I couldn’t quite make them out. Men and women emphatically slapped the tables in laughter, rattling the half empty glasses and late night coffees and honey cakes, sending them floating away around the room. Others sipped their absinthes knowingly, balancing their cigarettes so delicately atop their outstretched fingers.

Ah Prague, ah absinthe. In honor of Bohemia we ordered two drams of the green concoction. Actually it wasn’t green… but it did smell like licorice, and it burned, burned!

It suddenly became very warm in that bar.

I was taking in my hazy surroundings when I saw her, sitting silently beside a red couch. She wasn’t outlandish, wasn’t putting herself out there, just relaxing and blending into the scenery. I’m not sure anyone else in the room even noticed her.

She was a thing of beauty.

She had a strong yet elegant frame made of fine wood panels. Her golden pedals glimmered and winked at me, beckoning me. Her keys were made of real ivory, an authenticity that can not be faked. This was no tourist attraction. This was the real shit, the soft underbelly, the pearl, that hard-to-reach part of your back. I was suddenly helpless against a mighty river of desire. I let it take me, wash over me, sweep me away.

I could tell right away that she was played regularly; all the tell-tale signs were present. The keys were bare and open for all the world to see, draped flirtatiously like freshly painted fingernails. The bench was pulled out, a bare leg peeking from beneath a knee-length skirt. However refined she may have seemed to an untrained eye, I could see from across the room how much she loved to be touched, that her strings were tight, her music sweet and pure.

I realized I was in a conversation with a man at the bar. While pretending to chat, my gaze kept wandering to her quiet corner of the room. She stared back at me unabashed. I wanted to put my hands on her that very moment, to know her secrets.

Erica looked at my face and read me like a book. I was lost already and there was no point trying to pull me back. We locked eyes and she signaled that I was free to go. I immediately moved to the instrument.

When I touched, I fell into a trance. Twenty minutes of absinthe-fueled dream music left my body.

Dumplings and cigarettes and alleyways. Twisting streets and beggars with their faces in the dirt. Pianos and absinthe and my wife’s soft skin. Love and travel and hunger and… feeling so lost that you forget what country you’re in.