B A R R Y L A N D .



made of this








memoirs of an amnesiac.
delightful musings from an off-the-wall composer

a musical offering.
the strange recipe for a sunday morning instrumental

killer music.
my score for sea world's shamu show, and the story behind it

some clips from my first solo CD

southern crossing.
adventures in uruguay, argentina, and brazil

things I did in 03.
how do you measure a year in the life


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I was reading the November 04 issue of Gentleman's Quarterly, in which, among the fashions and tips and general guy stuff, there is a remarkable article by Andrew Corsello called "The Wronged Man." It's about a man who was jailed for a crime he didn't commit, and then released years later because the DNA evidence didn't match up.

Corsello takes some journalistic liberties, putting us into the mind of the man as if this were a short story rather than investigative journalism. One paragraph in particular struck me as so perceptive I had to come in here and write it down. It has little to do with jail or justice, and much to do with how the human heart works. It resonated with me, I guess, partly because I just got married and am experiencing the truth of it for the first time in this deep way.


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 A t first he tethers his longing to his memories: of dancing with her for an hour straight the night they met; of their holiday celebrations; of Kesha's birth; of instances when the might of their physical love verged on the preposterous. But as the years pass, he comes to see that there is a difference between what he can remember about their relationship and the relationship itself — that the great moments of their life, though marvelous, are unconnected dots, and that what actually holds a man and a woman together are millions of tiny, unremarkable moments that cannot be individually seen or collectively explained. The moments one simply must be there for. So he finds himself pining for what he cannot quite remember, the non-events, the sweet quiet nothings of being with her. There's a thing she used to do as she nuzzled his chest in bed, a peaceful rolling coo. Did she know she did it? Did she know he could feel the low little hum in his sternum? What did she mean by it? Something plain and good, he thinks now. You're here with me. I'm here with you.