I am finally sitting in a good chair. i bought a nice leather one today for $38. Well, since I was in a Mexican dollar store today, I saw this nice leather chair and decided to buy it. I opened the container, noticed the made in China sticker, and put the pieces together. The destructions on the " Giannelli Designs" chair Made in China,
required that I use 4 3/4 inch screws, and 2 1 1/4 inch screws for the 'easy assembly'. Also would be included a wrench. None could be found.

What a surprise that the screws, and wrench was missing. It was bought at a discount store, so I shrugged it off, and went to Ace hardware to buy the 1 1/4 inch & 3/4 inch screws.

I returned to the house, only to rush out to the dentist's office. Imagine seeing a falcon, tethered to a string, hooded, and perched on a man's leather glove. The man was walking nonchalantly down the street. I stopped him and asked about the falcon, he said it was a bird that hunted, it was a sport. I asked if I could film him in this activity. Unfortunately, the bird was molting now, and was not in prime shape to fly. I thanked him anyways, and perhaps I will find him later, and film him, or maybe he will let me hold the bird and be filmed hunting with it, That would be cool.

I made my way to the dentist, and got drilled for a small cavity. It was less painful than the last visit. On the way out, I passed a chocolate cake with cinnamon icing.
What was this doing in the Dentist's office, of all places?
She said she was going to eat it with a friend, but I said, " Shouldn't you be eating better foods for your teeth than chocolate cake?"
She just smiled and laughed. Another Mexican Dentist, another surprise.

I came back to my house, sweating from the heat and tried to assemble my new leather chair. I have been sitting on a chair I found on the roof top. A small wooden stool, half eaten by termites, and destroyed by the heat and sun here; it lasted about 3 months before the legs started slowly seperating under me while I played. As if it wasn't hard enough fighting Bach, I had to fight the chair beneath me also!

I tried to put the screws together on the chair, and what a big surprise, the ones I had, didn't fit.

God love the Chinese, if they don't screw you out of the screws, they screw you by giving you the wrong sizes on the screws!

Back to Ace Hardware, this time I take the cushions under my arm, and go straight to the screw man. I rush past the front attendant, who tries to get me to leave my bag at the front desk.
Sometimes it pays to be a Yanki, because I just breeze by, as if I can't understand a word she says.

I finally find the right screws, they were 7/16 and 1 inch. I am now sitting high in my siamese catbird seat.

Today, April Fools Day, I continued recording "Josefina", a song about seeing a person that takes your breath away, and the feelings we keep inside,sometimes afraid to act upon them.

I record with Digital Performer 5.1, and have been using it since DP 4, about 3 years. I have no bass here, so I improvise, by using a heavy rest stroke on my classical, and tweak the mixer to add bass to the track. It works well.

The past few days have been very focused on this song, arranging, and re-arranging the form.

Something funny happened a few days back, on Saturday. I had a lesson arranged with my teacher, who is a SUPER procrastinator. If he weren't such a great player, he would be very skinny from lack of funds. We arrange the lesson for Friday, but when I called that morning, he informed me, again, that it was a bad day. Maybe it was a hangover. I was told, tomorrow, would be a better day.

So I was awoken by a phone call at 10 am, his frantic wife was calling me, informing me of a terrible calamity in Japan, about the major earthquake. It seemed that was the excuse of the day not to have the lesson. Earthquakes in Japan? That's why I can't have a lesson? This was too much.

I called the next morning, after not hearing from anyone, nor the FEMA team. My teacher informed me that Yo-Yo Ma was staying at their house, due to the cancellation of his concert in Japan. Now it made sense, but why not say that in the first place?
I just happened to be playing the Bach Cello Suite, and thought it would be great to play it for the world's best cellist. Apparently my teacher did not think so.

Bach to the practice room, earthquake or not, the show goes on.

This past Saturday I had the sudden impulse to call my teacher back in San Francisco to alert him that I would be returning as a student in the Fall. The sensation to contact him hit me like a bolt of lightening. I had been calling him for the past month, with no success. It seemed he never, ever answered the phone, nor returned calls. This mattered not to me. I had the feeling that day, like I needed to contact him, as if there was some sort of deadline I was missing.

I called him at 2 o'clock, and miraculously, he answered! I was surprised, but these kind of coincidences happen to me all the time. He was glad to hear from me, and asked what I was up to, what I was playing. I told him about the new song I had composed, "Bagdad Blues". I told him it was a protest song. He asked, " What are you protesting?" I said, "The war, what else?" He replied " "Oh, I don't know Chris, maybe you were protesting MacDonalds or something". Well, that's my teacher, always giving unexpected answers.

He informed me that a colleague, Arina, was playing in Mexico this weekend. I asked where, and he didn't know. I investigated on her website, and found out there was a guitar festival in Zihuatenejo, Mexico, 4 hours from my house. It was then 3 pm. I had 5 hours to get there. I decided immediately to go. There was no plane, the bus would make me arrive at 10, and so I took the logical route, a taxi.

The first taxi I saw, took me towards the bus station, because I had thought the best way, initially would be the bus. I asked the driver, on a whim, how much it would take to get to Zihuatenejo, and he said, $200 US. I bartered down to $100 , plus some gas and tolls. We were on our way.

We took the highways and tollroads, and it was surprisingly clean, uncrowded, and a fast journey. We made our way through the MIchoacan state, due west, then south to Guerrero state, where Zihuatenejo is. As we approached Uruapan, a city known for its delicious coffee, I noticed it was getting higher, and colder each minute. We passed mountain after mountain, wide open ranges, with hardly a town in site. I was beginning to worry that I didn't bring enough clothes to make it through the nights. As soon as we started to reach the summit, the driver informed that we passing through the heart of the narcotraffico's territory. Here, was where all the marijuana, coca, adn opium was grown to export to the US. Here, in these little towns, there were gangs of millionaires, driving Porsches, Mercedes, and wearing cowboy hats, and listening to Ranchero music; the ballads often talk of the narcotrafficos, and their exploits, in hidden terms.

He informed me, that it would not be wise to go there. As an American, I would be highly scrutinized, and possibly shot. The driver began to tell me about a friend of his that was a petty criminal. He had been caught selling stolen card numbers. He had spent some time in jail, and the driver had visited him. The driver told me that here in Mexico, the jails are like country clubs, if you have money, you have everything. Prostitutes, drugs, cable TV, any food you wish, Tequila, and guns! He told me that the prisoners inside murder each other often, but surprisingly, there is never an insurrection against the guards. The guns are everywhere in the prison, but are used for protection against one another.

Soon, we passed the apex, and as we were descending, he informed me that soon, we would be in Tierra Caliente, or Hot Land. He was not kidding. In about 5 minutes, the heat at 6 pm, was 90 degrees! I felt as if we had entered the oven! The air became very dry, hot and I felt as if I had been embraced by a heavy blanket. The land was desolate. Agaves, cactus, small shrubs and bushes now lined the earth. We passed through valleys, and crossed the Balsa River. This river runs throughout the West of Mexico, and is enormous. At the end of Michoacan state is has been damned to generate power for the whole state and the Mexico CIty. The scenary was spectacular. It was pristine, untouched, wild, undeveloped, adn teeeming with life. There were armadillos, iguanas, skunks, and qualis throughout this land. I never saw any, but we did smell plenty of the skunks! We saw a few men in pickup trucks lined up on the road hunting quail.

We passed through valleys where there were sheer cliffs, falling hundreds of feet from the mesas, polka dotted by agave plants growing from the vertical cliffs. They were incredible to see.

I must rest, the story will continue tomorrow!!

Ok, a week, a new guitar, and a Russian fishing expedition later, I am completing the story.
3-27-07
The taxi driver and I finished snaking our way through gorgeous valleys and mountains, past rivers and Hydroelectric plants to arrive at about 9pm in Zihuatenejo. As we entered the town we asked for directions to 'El Pueblito' restaurant. We began to lose hope when before us there seemed to be gridlocked traffic, both sides or the street were blocked while everyone rubbernecked for an insignificant bumper crumper. It looked as if the main street were closed. My hopes to meet my friend were dashed. We turned away from the crash, asked the taxi driver next to us for 'El Pueblito' and behold, in front of us, there it was!

I hopped out, two small shoulder bags with me, and walked to the bar. As I entered, I looked around and noticed Americans. I thought this must be the right place. I looked inside, and right as I began to ask the doorman for Arina, she snuck up behind me and grabbed me!
She was hiding in the bushes, warming up with some tissue rolled up under her strings. I walked right past her without even hearing, or seeing her!

Arina had been in Zihuatanejo for a week; her tan was dark, and peeling a little on her shoulders. She was wearing a bright white linen skirt and top that contrasted nicely with her skin.
We were both very happy to see each other. We hugged and talked excitedly about the festival and my life in Mexico.

Arina introduced me to her Candian friend, David, that had been living in Zihuatenejo on and off for the past 15 years. He filled me in on the details while Arina readied for her performance.
I was impressed with the atmosphere, the restaurant had an open courtyard, a large stage, and four cages holding some large parrots. It was filled with about one hundred people and everyone was very interested in the music. The festival was in its' fourth year, this being the first year it had garnered the approval and sponsorship of the local government. The town's Mayor seemed to appreciate very much the music and took a quick liking to my friend. I remarked that there seemed to be many American retirees here, and many of them looked like hippies. David began to tell me the recent history of Zihuatanejo. In the 60's when Timothy Leary had been kicked out of Harvard, he came to Zihuatanejo and rented out two floors of a local hotel. It was there for years he and his followers communed and freaked out on LSD and other Psychedelics. Across the bay, there was Alberto Falco's beachfront property, right next to the popular Gato Beach. Albert was one of Jacques Cousteau's original crewmembers on the Calypso. David told me that Albert is a legend in Zihuatanejo, is 80 years old, and a bit cantakerous. He has been shot at by locals, and shot back, defending his land against trespassers and the local government.

I will post more tomorrow, it's bedtime for me.

Today the front bell rang and I went to anwer it. We live in an apartment complex, and often, we wait until the bell has been rung a few times. There are often confused people that ring all 6 bells before finding the person they are seeking.

When I went to the front and opened the door, in front of me were two short women holding a rainbow colored umbrella, and a basket which held a book covered with the scene of Noah's Ark.
" We would like to do a short spiritiual work for you" they said. I realized they were Jehovah's Witnesses, and quickly excused myself.

Imagine living in a country that has a 99% Catholic population, and being a Jehovah's witness.
That's a hard sell.

I resolve to figure out Digital Performer 5 today. I had this recording software up and running about a year ago, and now, I cannot hear any of the mic outputs. I am playing and recording but the process is Byzantine, as I cannot get a direct signal.

Last night, Michael and I were recording Cowboy music, and I decided to write one my self.
It's titled, Bagdad Blues.

I will post it here when I figure out how to make all these computers recognize each other.

Last night I dreamt of an owl, and of the planet Jupiter. I remember seeing the planet's shadow, in the sky above me, ever moving, and with its moons. I stared in disbelief as I tried to find a telescope to better see it.

Later I remember seeing a yellow eyed owl, staring at me from a tree, not far from my face.

I looked up the dream interpretation from predictions and it read: "The owl is the archetype of wisdom in many cultures' parables. The owl is often a sign of longevity, as well as knowledge. This knowledge pertains especially to the future and the mysteries of the night. You may be seeking such knowledge or be receiving an oracle hinting that you may be in possession of such knowledge".

For the planet Jupiter, I found this out: "To see a planet in your dream, signifies creativity, exploration, and new adventures.? You may be trying to align yourself with untapped energies that you never knew you had".


I awoke, against ,my will, to the sound of a waching machine. It seemed to be originating either directly under or over me. The whole room was vibrating in unison with this noise. As a musician, I couldn't take my mind away from this intrusion. I walked outside, up the steps, braving the cold, and knocked on my neighbor's door. Luckily, they were awake. A young Mexican woman came to the door. I asked her about the sounds, and she said it was bothering her also, but coming from another building. That was impossible, as I could feel the machine vibrating directly on my wall.

I smiled, and went back to my room, and laid in bed, eyes open, awake.The sound continued. I realized it must be coming from the downstairs neighbor. At 7:30 it ended, for the second time.
I choose to see this as a blessing, as I began to write and organize my web presence due to the electronic rooster.

Ok, so I have been living in Mexico for the past 7 months. I haven't posted a single journal entry.
I will begin adding the material I have written in the past 7 months here soon.

Really, I mean that. I am currently busting my knuckles on the Bach Cello suite for guitar. It has taught me so much about music, the guitar, and most of all, what one can achieve when your mind and spirit are focused.

We tried to watch the lunar eclipse last night on our roof. We have an incredible view of the small city of Morelia. We are surrounded by five lush mountains and are currently enjoying 80 degree weather. Winter has long passed us by. There are beautiful scarlet red birds, canyon wrens that sing chromatic melodies, and buzzing wasps that rush by my head.

I love this town, and the energy of the land and people of Mexico. There are many cultural events here, you will soon read about them. I will post them, I PROMISE!!

They will be in reverse order, and will include photos, and maybe some video, if I can manage to figure that out. (help me! someone!)

Last night we anxiously watched the moon, but the eclipse never materialized. We did however, enjoy roasted bunny rabbit on our new grill. That was delicious, sorry Bugs.

It's not often one gets to visit the crossroads of western civilization. This June, I took the opportunity of a lifetime to visit Istanbul.

I am a troubador of sorts; a wandering musician. I have played in Brasil, Cuba, Argentina, Spain, England, and Ireland. I have a free spirit, and I listen to my heart. I am a classical guitarist
enrolled at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. I play music from all over the world, in many styles, and I have the fortune of finding a great teacher that believes in me.

Larry Ferrara is a teacher in the SF area, and in March, he heard through the grapevine of a particular couple, Bei Bei, and Jim Hawley, that were being married in Santorini, Greece. They needed a classical guitarist, and flautist, to travel with them and perform a variety of music, outside the realm of the classical musician. There would be no pay, but man, I knew I was going the moment he told me about it. I contacted them about the job, they gave me the music, and I had it arranged in one day. After hearing my demo, and watching us play together, we were welcomed to the party!

I had told everyone I knew about this dream gig, and I told my students that I would be in Greece for the month of May. Everything was set, but I had a sense that Greece would not have enough musical and cultural diversity to contain me for a month. So, I spoke to a close musician friend that I played North Indian classical music with. He suggested going to Istanbul to seek out the Sufis, a mystic order of Islam, founded in 13th century by followers of Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi. He stood for Love and ecstatic flight into the infinite. Rumi was one of the world's great spiritual masters and poetical geniuses of mankind. He was the founder of the Mawlawi Sufi order, a leading mystical brotherhood of Islam. Before there were spinning bling-bling hubcaps, there were the whirling dervishes, mystic followers of Rumi that devoted their lives to spiritual searching through song, dance and poetry.

My goal, of this entire trip had become to see the dervishes perform, to watch their cosmic dance, one hand pointed towards heaven, the other towards earth. The music would echo from centuries past, on flutes , saz, oud, and other instruments of the Silk Road. Here I could trace a direct path to Hindustani music and come to understand another source of my divine inspiration. More than that, I needed to be in the presence of this order, to feel the energy they were a part of.

I had spent that Sunday walking in Pera, meaning 'opposite shore' enjoying the distinctly European thoroughfair of Taksim on the Rue de Pera. A double wide street filled with all types of Turks, tourists, and hagglers. As I watched the men selling their ice cream I noticed the showmanship, skill and pride they desplayed as they twirled taffy like ice cream from a long iron bar out into the street, above their head, ringing bells and showing off to the other ice cream hawkers. They were stealing tourists from eachother, and the best showman had a sizeable crowd around him.
I couldn't stop thinking that these moves, this panache, had been a part of this eastern culture for thousands of years. Every mosque, every palace, the mosaics from Justinian's Byzantine empire, the Aya Sofia, these landmarks were living history, and this city was blowing my mind back and forth from Theodosius, to Ataturk at every taste and turn.

I marveled at the Art Deco buildings, and savored every taste of 'lokum' or Turkish Delight from a candy store that had opened in the year of our independence. Created in the Ottoman empire, to appease the girls of Sultan's Harem , the chewy, nut filled sugar laden squares were unforgettable, and addictive.



In Galata, on the "new side" of Istanbul, there was a monastery, now called the Galata Mevlevi Lodge. Constructed in 1491 on the hunting grounds of Iskender Pasha, a governer/ general during the reign of Sultan Bayezid II 'the just'. Without knowing it, one passes easily by this hidden treasure walking the winding merchant filled streets.

Every other Sunday the 'Sema' or dance ritual takes place. I did not want to miss it. At 4pm I had decided to go to Taksim Park, and catch a municipal bus to find this Mevlevi lodge. I asked about 5 bus attendants, about 'Sufi, Mevlevi, and Dervish', and no one could help. I finally was directed to a bus to take, and felt assured that I would be headed straight to the ceremony. I found myself the alone, on a bus filled with staring turks, and as we made way for the Bosphorus Bridge, the ticket collector began asking me for another ticket. Hadn't I given him his ticket when I boarded? Yes, but now this red headed and bearded giant wasn't getting anywhere with the Yanki, and someone kindly told him I was lost. A gentleman next to me spoke in plain english, " You are going to Asia". I said to him, No, I am going to see the dervishes, near Taksim. We started laughing together when I realized I was completely opposite from where I needed to be. He gave me some bus tickets, and i got off at the Bosphorus Bridge, and quickly hailed a cab back to Taksim. 4:40. I had 20 minutes to find this hidden temple. Luckily, the cabbie picked up on my sense of urgency, and by luck, I found myself on a street, very close to where i had been earlier. As I asked for directions, I began retracing the very steps i took that day, and when I found it, i realized I had walked past the lodge, without even noticing it. I went hurriedly to a guard station, where behind the window, a disinterested ticket seller was wrapping up the days profits into a faded green metal box. I was 15 minutes late, and there was no way he was letting me in for free, or for a student discount, or for a standing room only price. NO. YOU PAY, 25 LIRA. I agreed and walked through courtyard patrolled by some well fed cats, past the tombs of Sufi Mystics that had inscriptions in arabic upon white, thin granite. Resting upon the top of each one, was a sculpture of the sikke worn by each holy man, a symbol of his ego's tombstone.

I entered the lodge, around me, there was an air of dignity, piety, and awe.
I saw before me an octoganal wooden floor, with railing, around which sat 100 gazing tourists. I relaxed in one of the few wooden chairs left, and remembered how uncomfortable sitting in church on early mornings had been as a child, yet i never found it difficult to doze off during the priests sermons. Now I was spellbound by this ritual. These 13 men between the ages of 16 and 30 we covered in black cloaks to the floor, wearing long, tan elegant wool hats extending an arm's length above them. As their elder read passages from the Koran aloud, an unseen band in the rafters above began their music. First the lonely call of the Ney, the turkish wooden flute rose from the silence, representing the longing of the soul for union with God. The other instruments joined slowly, darbuka, saz, oud, and a chorus of men singing. As each layer was added, the dervishes began to slowly cast off their cloaks revealing an austere white jacket and long skirt which would eventually bliiow out. The members slowly walked around the floor, deliberately, self embracing themselves, hands to opposite shoulders. They past the elder leader four times, and as the interplay between instruments grew, the scene on the dance floor became more active. The players turned to face eachother, and one bby one they bowed, kissed the hand of the elder, and he bowed too, as they kissed, whispering into their ears.

Let's begin with my life abroad. I have spent the past four summers studying music on an island rife with poverty, blackouts, fuel, food , and medical shortages.

I found myself wanting to discover more about Afro-Caribbean music after a run in with a chef that was a refugee from the 70's. He was a champion heavyweight boxer, stood about 6'4" and could move as quick as an any teenager. He became quite nostalgic when i made a copy of Buena Vista Social Club for him. It reminded him of home, and of the life he had left.

I realized then, there was something worth looking into. I decided to travel a few summers later, to an island to study this music, on classical guitar. I had no expectations, only a desire to learn. What I received was a lesson that changed my life.