TO JOCELYN MORLOCK

March 29, 2023. Jocelyn, you have left our ranks. I won’t talk about heaven or god, because I know that you don’t believe in them – but, you’ve beat me to wherever it is that we go. Perhaps you’re no longer three hours behind me – Vancouver time. Maybe you’re finding that it’s better there. For those of us still here, we can only wonder. There are many people who knew you much more than me, and I can only say that the time that we spent together was precious. I wish that I’d have told you more of my secrets, and heard more of yours.

The last time I was in Vancouver, it was you who invited me – you were curating a program with the Vancouver Symphony and had brought them two of my works - Devotion and Vessel. You and I shared a program conducted by Bramwell Tovey, together with the premiere of Bramwell’s unstaged opera. In preparation for our pre-concert talk at the Annex together, and since your piece Lacrimosa was about your father passing away, we sat in a café in the sunny West Coast afternoon and discussed our childhoods, families, and life and death. You told me that your dad believed in life after death, and you didn’t, so that dissonance between you and him is what is behind the work.

I had just met you for the first time, but I immediately felt a sense of camaraderie and loyalty. Your warmth and buoyancy made it so easy to talk to you that I just assumed that we would have more conversations. You knew just the right questions to ask during the onstage talk. I always loved your music, and it was an honour to be on a program with you. Later I programmed your piece Petrichor when curating concerts for Metropolis Ensemble in New York City. You were not there in person, but you told me that your music is not often played in the U.S., so you were happy that the performance was happening. Your piece resonated beautifully in the space, a loft on the Bowery, mixing with the cacaphony of New York street noise. The memory of its chords rang out long past the performance. Petrichor: the smell of rain. The word comes from the Greek words 'petra', meaning stone, and 'ichor', which in Greek mythology refers to the golden fluid that flows in the veins of the immortals. Didn’t you believe, after Petrichor, that cooling rain comes to us finally in the midst of an arid time?

With Jocelyn and the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra at the Annex in 2018