Doolies and I met Shamin, Doolies’s psychiatry-doctor friend, for dinner and drinks last night. After we finished dinner at a wonderful bistro in Freemont (I haven’t even begun to explore the areas of Seattle), we went to a club downtown to listen to a jazz quartet. We went to this particular show because the leader of the quartet played cello (yes, a very strange instrument for a jazz band), and Shamin plays cello with a more traditional group.

The quartet was, well, interesting, in the weakest sense of that word. We thought individually all the players were good, but the selections were very modern and more disturbing than entertaining. The combination of saxophone and cello didn’t work for me. Both instruments play in the same range, and when they played the same notes (which they did often), the resulting sound was disappointing because it covered up the beauty of the individual instruments without creating a better sound.

Much of the music they (or, I think, the cello player) wrote was abstract. While I’m not much of a music aficionado, I do try to listen and understand composition. I think the potential for great music was there but they missed it (at least for me). For example, they played this piece called “Inner Turmoil.” The sounds were unexpected and daunting, but while there was much turmoil, there was no arc, no attempt to resolve the turmoil or explain its presence. Because I enjoy stories (in writing, movies, and music), when a song exhibits naked, unchanging emotions, I grow bored. Perhaps I’m overanalyzing it, but the song (and by extension the band) while challenging, left too much on the table.

I did have a point to this story: I’m beginning to think of my abstract exercises in that manner. As I continue to reach into that reservoir, I’m seeing that I should use it as a place to experiment and exercise. I have to remember that it is never in and of itself interesting. The interest comes with what I do with what I find buried in its midst.

Exercise: Throw phrases onto a page and cultivate what sticks without mistaking the residue for actual writing. It’s an exercise in excess, or, more particularly, new material for discussion (of the internal, I’m-really-not-an-insane-person type). When I’m throwing the tidbits onto the page, there is no rush, no editing, and no worries. All of that occurs afterwards.