(parenthetical thoughts)

(Harold Budd is walking in sandals around the shrubs and weeds of his backyard in Pasadena, California. It’s mid-afternoon, hot and sunny out. He kicks a stone that triggers a tiny dust explosion on his feet. Over the backyard are two telephone wires, a white bird sitting still on one of them. Budd is thinking about his next project—a live collaboration with a painter friend with whom he has agreed to play piano. Walking around the weeds and shrubs he thinks about how little he cares about the piano and how much more interesting this backyard is. He looks up at the bird on the telephone wire, imagining for a second that the wire is an enormous piano string. How deep would its pitch be—could he even hear it, or would he feel it as a rumble, like thunder at a distance? That could be a whole piece right there. He wipes his brow. The painter will do her thing and Budd will just play…something. He has no idea what though, and prefers to not think about it until the moment arrives and there’s no turning around. Music is too intense to waste time practicing it, right? At least whatever happens will be true to the time and space in which everyone finds themselves.)

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