there is uncertain tempo throughout my improvisational practice. a lack of pulse does not mean anything. it does not indicate death, the void, a ceaseless goodnight. watch, learn, listen, it beckons; it is how the rhythm enters the room.

sometimes i forget, when improvising, that i need to lead. someone has to make the downbeat, but if you’re not used to being the spark, the silence can linger like a malign houseguest. you stop knowing how to ask it to leave.

a time of timeshifts. it’s hot so run through the sprinkler. the shock of cold is the sign. the change of signatures loosens, and then draws taut, the binding between players. wet leaves falling from the same branch, caught by the same gust.

i listen for a pattern over seconds to minutes: an accenthound prized for endurance. my humility bars me from giving chase as fast as the others, but i am availed for my persistence.

for once, i feel the acceleration of the moment in a long period of constancy. new players, same instruments. a comfortable swath of extended techniques. i watch, learn, listen; i look for an opening to lead just as i would for the closing.