I'm as happy as you are bored.

(As with most of these obtuse pieces, Five Implementations of Three Lines is better viewed in the PDF format.)

For a few days, I'd intended to bring back a liter or two of water from the Aegean Sea. I was planning on pouring a centiliter or two of the water onto a sheet of nice rag paper, letting it evaporate, and repeating the process until all that was left was the "essence" of the Aegean. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it, until I thought too much and ended up with too many complexities.

Complexity No. 1: Most of the work of done I've done in the last few years can be digitally stored, transmitted, and reproduced ad infinitum. The watermarks (the working title I have for the project) would each be unique, incapable of being digitally stored, transmitted, or reproduced. The idea of having to take care of precious pieces of paper seems to be somewhat incompatible with my pseudonomadic life.

Complexity No. 2: Maybe water's not the way to go. Would a trip to Scotland be better represented by the essence of a few drams of Islay whiskey? By the essence of a few drams of Islay whiskey after they'd passed through me?

Complexity No. 3: I worry that the watermarks may be one of those clever ideas that I've subconsciously taken from someone else. I have no problems with using someone else's ideas, but only if it's deliberate.

I think I may be too analytical. As Howard Dietz said, "Composers shouldn't think too much--it interferes with their plagiarism."

It sounded like a good idea; I'll have to try it one of these days.

It must be true.

I enjoyed reading the piece; Kelly's tale seems like one of those rare the-cream-rises-to-the-top art world stories. ("The scum rises to the top" is a much more common theme.) The sketch ended on a disconcerting note, when Kelly said he would have liked to have been an explorer or a naturalist.

"I wanted to do all these things," he said, "and now I think they've passed me by. But I've always had this crusade to do what I do. I don't feel I could do anything else."

That remark sounded uncomfortably close to something I might write in three decades. I've still got time not to less other pursuits pass me by.

I think I'll stop writing and go for a walk.

That might not be true, but it feels true. That's why I find it unnerving when someone like Woody Allen hits the ceiling.

"I still try and practice [the clarinet] at least an hour a day, and have for forty years. I know there's a lid on my playing, that I'm never going to get beyond that lid, that I'm going to sound pretty much the same forever. But playing this old primitive [jazz] music is an essential part of my life."