In February 1995, I was halfway through my first year of graduate studies at Rice University. My teacher, Paul Cooper, was frustrated at the slow pace of my composition, his (understandable) irritation compounded by my inability to finish any of the “absolute music” projects we had discussed—pieces which I dutifully began, and doggedly struggled with, but abandoned when inspiration ran dry.

Out of sheer desperation, and recognizing my relative ease at setting text, Paul instructed me to go to Fondren Library, blindly select four or five books of poetry, open each to a random page, and set the first few lines that caught my eye—the theory being: if I wasn’t emotionally attached to the text, I wouldn’t become obsessed with finding “the perfect notes”, and would be able to complete each song rapidly.

However, I did compose the music in what would then have been an unbelievably short period of time: only a day or two for each song, if the markings in the manuscript are to be trusted (and I have no reason to doubt them). Just over a week later, I was ready to present the entire cycle.

I will never forget the day I first played “I Stood Tiptoe” for Paul. He sat in his armchair, staring out the window at the field behind the Shepherd School. I played and sang, and when I was done, I waited for his response. After what felt like an eternity—and without turning his gaze from the window—he said, “Play it for me again.” I played it again. This time when I looked up, Paul was quietly crying. He said, “You’ve really got something there, guy.”

Paul passed away on April 4, 1996.