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These pieces had only a few performances before other opportunities came and attention moved on. They had never been fully documented beyond an old program note or somebody’s memory of being in the room.

I returned to see what remained. The recordings have been remastered, and several pieces re-edited, pulled apart, and rebuilt. Two tracks grew from different works and no longer resemble the forms in which they began.

It is still a time capsule of what I was doing. My language has evolved, but the seeds of what I do now are present in these works.

The point was not to preserve them. It was to amplify the signals, put them somewhere new, and listen again.

Nothing stays where it was. Light moves across a room, and the room seems to change, though it hasn’t.

Memory does something like that. It holds on to something after it is gone, carrying some part of its energy forward. But remembrance is never fixed.

What returns is not what was.

Remembering a place is to see what it’s become. Knowing a voice is to hear how it’s changed.

Nothing returns the way it left, because it comes back carrying the distance it traveled, and everything that happened when it wasn’t being held.

Look again. You already know more than you did the last time.

At the center of the recording is an exploration of memory, identity, and the present moment. Layered arrangements and detailed sound design give the album a scale that moves between the intimate and the outward-looking.

Hands Full of Air, featuring mezzo-soprano Mara Zaki, gives voice to a child navigating the desire for acceptance and the fears that guard it. Across the album, familiar musical traditions are drawn into a sound world that remains rooted while refusing to stay fixed.