House on the Ocean

words and music by Doug Howell (12 Jan 1978)

I’ve always wanted a house on the ocean
all made of glass, perched high on a hill
then every morning I’d wake with the sunrise
and every night rock to sleep with the waves
all down the stairway that leads to the water
flowers are dancing in time with the breeze

but I’d be content with a room in the city
if you’ll just live with me
we could grow flowers in pots by the window
you can whisper the breeze in my ear

I’ve always wanted to be a composer
I’d write refrains in my house by the sea
I’d fill all the country with music and dancing
laughter and teardrops would walk hand in hand
and no one would think what they feel unimportant
all would be one and would not be the same

but I’d be content with a tune to be humming
if you’ll just live with me
I’ll hear a symphony each time you touch me
and your love is the song I will sing

since I remember, I’ve always wanted
to live in a future just like my dreams
everything I’d wish—that’s what would come true
think about flying and flying I’d be
riding on clouds over moonshadowed mountains
sliding on rainbows and chasing the stars

but I’d be content with only this moment
if you’ll just live with me
I’ll find my future in vows left unspoken
I can find all the stars in your eyes

2019 Notes

“House on the Ocean” is probably my overall favorite original song. Maybe that’s because I doubt there’s any other that matches the outpouring of raw emotion. It may seem like an odd choice to release after the recent “Kiss the Old Romantic Goodbye.” After that one, you had every right to expect the romantic was long gone. Well, as it happens, this song was written nine months before “Romantic.” This is the dream longed for, I suppose; “Romantic” the dream lost. Yet the second seemed to call for the first in some way. (Strangely enough, both David and I had the same thought.)

The problem was that, since I’ve performed this song quite a bit over the years, and still actually like the original recording (from the Singer album), how could I find a fresh approach? I finally decided to start by changing the key, moving it to E, a key I rarely play in, to force my fingers to find new notes. I wanted to up the rhythm, too—for the waves, I guess—so I also fiddled with tempos, forcing my hands to find new patterns.

On our second trip to Hawai‘i, David, in a very sweet attempt to make this dream come true at last, rented me a keyboard, and we set it up on the lanai of our rented cottage overlooking the cliffs and the crashing surf. In the next days, we watched sun and moon rise from the same, endless sea, and I wrote several pieces of what would become the St. Barnabas Mass—something he’d encouraged me to write. But I didn’t do it just to pay him back. They just came pouring out.

A few years later, I sit by our very own little “lava pool,” built over 30 years ago by the original owners of Bramalani (what we’ve named our little acre of paradise), and listen to the surf and the breeze on a daily basis. Things are not as turbulent as they were back in the year of “House’s” writing, but they’re just as challenge-full and wonder-full.

This time we don’t have to leave after just a few short days. We can stay, until the Good Lord shows us otherwise. I write music now most days, not just when I have energy left over from my so-called high-tech career. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt more fulfilled in my whole life.

It seems you can’t learn patience until you’ve lived through enough time to actually become patient. True, you may be forced into it, but you learn. Sometimes the dreams we lose do come back to us. The love, and all those things you’re willing to give up for love. They may come back someday. Transformed, maybe; much different than you originally imagined they’d be. Until one day you wake up, feel the touch of a luscious morning breeze, and realize that you’re finally, really, “content with only this moment.”

Heartfelt thanks to Mark Kieme for adding his gorgeous soprano sax to the track (and to Brian White for recording him back there in Michigan).

The picture for this 2019 version is a painting by Lionel Walden, “Kahala Moonlight,” 1929, Honolulu Academy of Arts. According to David H. Forbes, author of Encounters with Paradise: Views of Hawaii and its People, 1778-1941, Lionel Walden “was the finest seascape painter to work in Hawaii.” He visited Hawaii in 1911 and several times thereafter.

2007 Notes

I can still remember being there. I was on the freeway, heading North. (I almost always headed North in those days.) It was playing in my head, and I was writing it down, like dictation. I think this is my favorite song, really. It’s just always seemed perfect to me. Maybe that’s because the person I was writing it about seemed perfect to me, too.

Lonnie and Joe were over once and we were talking about rhyme schemes and types (I was reading Jimmy Webb’s book about songwriting at the time, and had just read the part about perfect versus imperfect rhymes). Lonnie loves the song, too (and, by the way, she can sing it like nobody else; in fact, she sang it for our ceremony), so we were both anxious to figure out what kinds of rhymes the song had. I went and scrounged up the sheet music and we started reading through the lyrics. Slowly, it dawned on us. Wow, that’s funny, we realized. There’s no rhyme scheme at all! It was true. The song seemed perfect, but it didn’t rhyme.

Of course, at the time I wrote it (or took it down as dictation, depending on your point of view), I wasn’t really concerned about rhyming anything. It was a plea, that’s all. A desperate plea that didn’t work. But somehow I lived on, and years later I finally came to see that the song was as much about me as it was about him.

1979 Notes

This song is only for you.