Spent the afternoon listening to Eugene practice his Debussy group. Those French waters washed me back to Lake Michigan's adolescent waves, waves which were La Mer in 1937, and swept me then to Vuillardian parlors where, musically submerged in vin rouge and fumes of Camembert, the composer composed Khamma. But it can be summoned clear as a snapshot of the Parc Monceau, and the sound of a series of secondary sevenths is enough for the snapshot to smell of almond leaves.