So: we're all tired. Now what? Manuscripts written in Club Med?

I frequently compose out the entire metric structure of a piece in modified cyclic form, where each cyclic revolution undergoes some form of 'variation' much as if measure lengths were concrete musical 'material.'

I don't like listening to my music, not even new pieces. Generally, they sound pretty much like I expected them to sound, so it's what I wanted, and that's it.

So: we're all tired. Now what? Manuscripts written in Club Med?

The past nine years in San Diego have represented such a period of questioning.

By reason of weird translation, many such sets of instructions read like poems anyhow.

Hence my obstinate emphasis on stylistic continuity from work to work rather than specific sibling relationships between the individual work and other members of its stylistic 'family' in the world outside.