Rufus Reid, the jazz musician, was the author of the excellent tome from which I learned the electric bass. Reid knows what makes up a good musician. Somewhere in the front matter he makes an elegant decomposition of the elements: there is Technic, the ability to hit the notes fast and wide; there is Theory, a knowledge of tonal and harmonic structure; and there is Concept. Concept is the most sophisticated, and according to Reid, it must be explored only once Technic has been developed and Theory has been learned. Concept is what goes beyond virtuosity, what establishes your place in the world and your efforts as a musician. Miles Davis' "concept" at the time of Bitches' Brew might have been to fuse jazz sounds with rock structures. Shosti's concept might have been to rail against Stalinism.

I've been wanting to write about Prague for two weeks now and haven't been able to do it.

My trip was a lot like walking around a foreign city with another, silent, person sitting on my face. I walked with my head inside an environmentally-controlled bubble, a bubble of my too-familiar homeland.

I went with a dear old friend from college. Once upon a time we drank coffee after midnight and sat on the floor grading papers and forming theses about the nature of performance and of power. We made up Monty Python-esque skits of unfathomable brilliance. We laughed ourselves silly.

My dear old friend has been vexed with problems for many years. She has no time to think; she drowns herself in work; she makes little money; she lost her boyfriend; she relaxes by drinking and by smoking. When she talks, she talks about her problems. When she asks questions, she asks about her problems. When her traveling companion is pondering questions about his own life, she interjects her problems and changes the subject. She expresses no curiosity about her traveling companion.

I wanted her to speak, I wanted her to help unfold wisdoms and striking observations. I wanted her to leave me alone, too, but we were at loggerheads, unable to change one another and unable to get loose.

So I wanted to write about the musings that I was led to by cobblestone streets and pretty red hair; by the presence of history and historical change; by those urban spaces that were shaped under something besides consumer demand. But I hadn't any such thoughts. I was thinking about her.

Not that I didn't have a rich experience of the place—things happened. Things not so much of Prague, perhaps, but things of life. Things that might happen to a sailor on shore-leave in a place he hadn't the time nor energy to learn about.

The particularity of the events I suffered: they were rich, they would make a good story. Yet I have no motive as a writer. I have no "pocket" as Victor Wooten would say, no "Concept" as Rufus Reid would put it. I've got the skills to hit every note, but I don't know why I'm making music.