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The Sound I felt ~ A Terror is More Certain . . .by Bob Kaufman featuring Gil Fuller & Monterey Jazz Festival – Angel City Blues – Feat. Dizzy Gillespie

Watts Riots
Watts Riots

Forty years ago today, large sections of South Los Angeles went up in flames. The violence and looting came to be known as the Watts riots. The chaos was a precursor to the urban unrest other cities would soon experience. In a few moments, we’ll hear from a man who continues to activism that sprang from the 1965 riots, but, first, some history. ~ Adolfo Guzman Lopez, Reporter for KPCC

It has been fifty years when the first time I felt terror in August of 1965 when the Watts riots broke out and the Tsunami of hate, violence, fear which through the veil of animosity lay the remains of life.  The 19” television in our family room seemed to have drowned out the music and replaced it with noise.  Bob Kaufman’s A Terror is More Certain… and Angel City Blues acoustically recounts the story, beginning light and deliberate to an absolute terror filled frenzy of destruction and loss.  What do you feel and hear?  Peace & Out!  JBC 😎 & ❤

A Terror is More Certain . . .

By Bob Kaufman

A terror is more certain than all the rare desirable popular songs I
know, than even now when all of my myths have become . . . , & walk
around in black shiny galoshes & carry dirty laundry to & fro, & read
great books & don’t know criminals intimately, & publish fat books of
the month & have wifeys that are lousy in bed & never realize how
bad my writing is because i am poor & symbolize myself.

A certain desirable is more terror to me than all that’s rare. How
come they don’t give an academic award to all the movie stars that
die? they’re still acting, ain’t they? even if they are dead, it should
not be held against them, after all they still have the public on their
side, how would you like to be a dead movie star & have people sit-
ting on your grave?

A rare me is more certain than desirable, that’s all the terror, there
are too many basketball players in this world & too much progress
in the burial industry, lets have old fashioned funerals & stand
around & forgive & borrow wet handkerchiefs, & sneak out for
drinks & help load the guy into the wagon, & feel sad & make a
date with the widow & believe we don’t see all of the people sink-
ing into the subways going to basketball games & designing baby
sitters at Madison Square Garden.

A certain me is desirable, what is so rare as air in a Poem, why can’t
i write a foreign movie like all the other boys my age, I confess to all
the crimes committed during the month of April, but not to save
my own neck, which is adjustable, & telescopes into any size noose,
I’m doing it to save Gertrude Stein’s reputation, who is secretly
flying model airplanes for the underground railroad stern gang of
oz, & is the favorite in all the bouts . . . not officially opened yet
Holland tunnel is the one who writes untrue phone numbers.

A desirable poem is more rare than rare, & terror is certain, who
wants to be a poet & work a twenty four hour shift, they never ask
you first, who wants to listen to the radiator play string quartets all
night. I want to be allowed not to be, suppose a man wants to
swing on the kiddie swings, should people be allowed to stab him
with queer looks & drag him off to bed & its no fun on top of a
lady when her hair is full of shiny little machines & your a**
reflected in that television screen, who wants to be a poet if you
f**k on t.v. & all those cowboys watching.

Bob Kaufman, “A Terror is More Certain . . .” from Cranial Guitar. Copyright © 1996 by Eileen Kaufman. Reprinted by permission of Coffee House Press. http://www.coffeehousepress.org

Source: Cranial Guitar (Coffee House Press, 1996)

hope faith & love

© Copyright  2011-2015 by Jazzybeatchick/JazZenista/Jannat Marie. All rights reserved.

This material is has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks and added to websites; please do not change the content, provide credit by including the author’s name @ http://jazzybeatchick.com and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

The Sounds I felt ~Riff Shots, Licks, Mimesis and Acoustic & Video Snaps from The Village Vanguard, Me, My Father and Ahmad Jamal circa 1969 Accompanied by Ahmad Jamal – “Frank’s Tune”

NewYork_VillageVanguard_Courtesyof singyoursongthemovie_dot_com
NewYork_VillageVanguard_Courtesyof singyoursongthemovie_dot_com

My family and I moved back to New York in the Fall of 1969.  We lived in Jamaica Estates in Queens.  My mother said that the one thing she loved about living in New York City was the change of Seasons.  LA was was a stark contrast and a culture shock for me.  I remembered living on Riverside Drive and going to the park with all the other children and their mom’s or nanny’s.  Night life was a whole different world.  There was no comparison, the opening of the Los Angeles Music Center (an upcoming post) was a gala event in 1967.  Limousines and everyone all glammed up ~ tux’s and evening gowns that stole the show from the stars that shone that night in the sky.  Bling everywhere!  Night life in the New York Jazz scene had its own magic.  Everybody was a superstar.  The subways meant you travelled in style.  You didn’t need a limo.  Besides everyone had the chance to sit next to Dizzy or Miles or Byrd and if you knew that you were in their presence, you smiled and cocked your head to greet them.  There was no standing on ceremony.  The only ceremony was in the club.  There is something majestic about New York, snow, traffic, subways, the hot dog and pretzels stands, and I can’t forget the pervasive smell of chestnuts that were roasting signaling the holiday season was near.  We took the F train in and got out on 14th Street in the Village.

Village-Vanguard-interior
Village-Vanguard-interior

I saw the red awning blanketed with snow that glistened in the evening lights, I felt my heart skip a beat.  The Village Vangard’s grand opening on February 22, 1935, by Max Gordon. At first, it featured many forms of music  and poetry~ folk music and beat poetry, but it switched to an all-jazz format in 1957. The Village Vanguard, is a small underground club nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village and to the best of my recollection one of the hottest places in the world to hear the best jazz,  We made our way down stairs to a table that was right next to the piano.  My father ordered Jambalaya and Shrimp Étouffée with Dirty Rice.  A spotlight shown on the piano that was tucked into a corner.  I will always wonder how the heck they got this Steinway Grand Piano down a narrow flight of stairs, so narrow mind you, you have to turn sideways to descend them.  The clapping began to fill the air and  Ahmad walked out smiling and bowing as he made his way to the piano.  He gave my father a warm hug  and bowed to our table then sat down to play Snowfall, and Frank’s Tune.  These were songs my father told me they worked together on. My father said that Ahmad was like Errol Garner and Joe Henderson who had a way with the ivory that Count Basie and Duke would applaud.  What a treat to be caught up in the mindfulness and sacredness of Jazz in a well established club in the Village.  That night was so unique and as perfect  as an individual snow flake  Tom MoonNPR musical correspondent put it like this, Ahmad Jamal is one of the great Zen masters of jazz piano. He plays just what is needed and nothing more… every phrase is perfect.”  Peace Out!  JBC 😎  ❤  Happy Nu Year!  Here is a snap of M. Jamal playing at the Alhambra so you can get a feel of what it was like at the Village Vanguard back in 1969.  I hope you enjoy it.  Peace and Love Out!  JBC 😎 & ❤

Happy Holidaze 2 U from the Pacific Northwest.

hope faith & love

© Copyright  2011-2015 by Jazzybeatchick/JazZenista/Jannat Marie. All rights reserved.

This material is has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks and added to websites; please do not change the content, provide credit by including the author’s name @ http://jazzybeatchick.com and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

 

Free Write Friday ~ H.A.T.E.R.’s, Jazz, The Fog of Breast Cancer, and BFF’s Sounds by: Gil Fuller & Monterey Jazz Festival – A Patch Of Blue – Feat. James Moody

FreeWrite Friday

 Music is the space between the notes…”  ~ Claude Debussy

My mother and I were more than best friends forever (BFF’s), we were sister warriors in the battle against breast cancer.  This journey began over sixteen years ago on October of 1997 after dad died.  I was truly blessed because mom taught me the significance and grace of unconditionally loving another person, and she has always encouraged me and supported me in every aspect of my life.  We stemmed the tides of loss, grief and pain throughout the whole process.  We were each other’s caregivers.

Romare Bearden Collage1
Romare Bearden Collage1

If someone isn’t what others want them to be, the others become angry. Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or her own.”  ~ Paulo Coehlo

Dad introduced and taught me using valuable jazz lessons how to handle the rigors of the harsh realities of choosing to live a creative life.  Initially, I was confused about what I wanted to be when I grew up.  My father didn’t want me to go into music, dance, acting, blah, blah blah because he was angry at the way the “Arts” treated women.  He thought it was safer to be a doctor.  He would get angry and tell me that it was no place for a lady!  In my father’s case I believed that he wanted to become a doctor.  He was a man of intensity and commitment and I never really knew that he felt he was protecting me.  Looking back I realized it was his way of preparing me to stand my ground and confront my ego, negative thoughts, fear, failure and the challenges that we all face by accepting that like change it is necessary for us to connect with our God given spiritual gifts.  Leaning in and coming face to face with a challenge it signals that you have to awaken to those gifts using them to overcome it.

The rutlandcitypublicschoolsdotorg Jazz Music
The rutlandcitypublicschoolsdotorg Jazz Music

“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” ~ Paulo Coehlo

The possibility of living a creative life transformed me by using mindfulness improvisation!  is when “Jazz” the Catalyst”  has ability to interact in a manner specific to the intensity of the vibration frequency of “Cancer” connecst with the higher consciousness “mindfulness improv” that will enlighten, inspire, provide the energy that becomes the “substrate” that changes you.  Listening is a portal giving you the ability to discern the egos “chatter of negativity from what resides in the heart of fear.  It wasn’t an option in that moment.  It was like breathing.

Pablo Picasso Painting
Pablo Picasso Painting

And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

Fortunately I discovered I have to write because it gives me the sense of who I am.  It was the response to the Call to the life that was given me.  When I combine the blessing my father gave me “jazz” when he took me to rehearsals, festivals, recording sessions;  and his introduction to the players like, Dizzy GillespieJames MoodyCount BasieIgor Stravinsky, and Ralph J. Gleason and  Charles Champlin of L.A. Times that  individually and collectively inspired and nurtured me to devote myself to a creative life.  I thought I was secretly writing in my journals — poetry and lyrical prose/essay that I created when dad was composing songs on the piano downstairs in 1963.  I was surprised to found that he knew all about my writing secretly in my room when I found in the Gibson guitar case he gave me when I was 9.  I opened it up and found all of my writing nestled between sheet music.  It was my Aha! Moment when I realized what a blessing my father gave me of living wonderfully enchanted life of musical thinking where my words can separate sound from music. Writing was my Response to my life’s adversities like cancer, writer’s block

I am truly NOT a H.A.T.E.R.(Having Anger Toward Everyone Reaching Success) of Breast Cancer….

The minute the word cancer entered our house, everything changed. I felt desperate and frightened by the prospect of cancer and another death.  But I refused to take this lying down.  I dove directly into the cresting wave of the unknown and sprung into action—there were logistics to deal with and mom needed support.  I moved back in with her after dad’s death and we struggled with missing dad, but also dealing with taxes and issues related to her therapy.

Chemotherapy is brutal. Radiation was something way beyond that.. The goal of these therapies is to kill everything in your body before it kills you. I wanted to take the burden off her. When dad had his massive stroke he was on a respirator and in a coma we asked my brother to make a tape of dad’s music to play continuously in his ears.  After ten days, he was out of the coma and was breathing on his own.  You can’t tell me that God didn’t have a role in that.

Surreal Last Exit

‘My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer,’ the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless sky. ‘Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.‘”  ~ Paolo Coehlo

Chemotherapy makes everyone suffer.  Facing fear and suffering I decided to bring a tape of my father’s music into the chemo suite when she had chemo and radiation therapy and it majestically made the most terrifying moments evaporate from both of us. It not only served as a connection between the two of us, it was a connection for the other patients and the hospital staff as well.   We laughed and interacted with one patient in particular, Pat.  Pat had colon cancer.  It had metastasized and spread to her bone.  I met her when I had my mastectomy and she lay in the bed next to me after surgery.  Mom came in and waited for me to come around.  I opened my eyes and there they were.  What a beautiful sight.  Apparently mom and Pat formed a bond.  When mom had the pick put in, Pat hovered over me like a lioness guarding her cubs.  After the pick was in mom, she developed a serious infection they could not control.  After a week, mom was moved to a nursing home in Paramus New Jersey for 90 days.  I couldn’t drive so Pat would come and sit on my bed holding the phone while we talked to mom and talked until the nurse came in and told us she would have the phone removed. Mom had two daughters now.  That spring all we did was laugh and act silly….More to come… See you between the words…, Peace and Love Out! JBC -8) & <3.

Japanese translation for meaning
Japanese translation for meaning

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Jazzin’ Thru Thursday ~Mindfulness, Improv and Jazz: The Wow Factor ~ Oh My! Featuring Ballet Dance Jazz J. Company – Mindfulness Meditation Jazz

 

Jazzin' thru Thursday
Jazzin’ thru Thursday

 

I found out you have to study the culture of the music as well in order to learn jazz.” Regina Carter: Improvising A Life In Jazz

 

jazz improv

 

You know you are immensely creative?  No seriously.  Don’t deny it.  Since you were born, you were given the gift to constantly create your reality.  Some of us engage in it more than others.  Sometimes folks tell you that you are not creative or even you don’t consider yourself a creative type well the truth is that you are constantly creating ideas with every breath that you take.  Jazz can teach us about mutual respect, to nurture our own creativity, spontaneity and how we interact with ourselves and one another and accentuates our innate ability to thrive and build our sustainability skills.

Mindfulness is an invitation to become aware of the constant flow of the universe both inner and exterior and gives us the choice to acknowledge it and either get into the rhythm or to choose to let it flow outside in harmony.   When we become aware of ideas from a sense of serenity at the shore of the ocean or stream you are more likely to develop a different perspective and with that insight will see things in the light of all the commotion that is swirling around us.

 

When mindfulness is combined with jazz’s art of improvisation you become engaged in the process of creating thru words, numbers, music, art, or movement you will never get lost in a concept you actually become a part of the process in its purest form of creativity and enlightenment.  Mindfulness allows us to awaken to the world with childlike wonder and amazement giving us the joy to play with new concepts and seeing and being things from a new perspective.  Judgment and critical thinking is set aside for analysis.  Mindfulness is the ability to let things evolve and not interfere.  It allows you to be patient and know that things are about to happen and not having any expectations of how things will turn out.

The Wow Factor according to Collins dictionary is an informal striking or impressive feature that stimulates us to become creative. Information, trends, media, iPod, iPads, Surface tablets, android or smart phones have invaded our space and taken over our ability to rely on our own devices.  I am so much more connected and happier when I turn those devices off.  Check into a good book, not an e-reader, and watch the television with a big ol’ bowl of my homemade Vegan Ice cream with mangos and pineapple and coconut cream and of course in my p.j.’s.

So let’s get into the Jazz – Just follow what Count Basie said to me at a rehearsal for the Newport Jazz Festival in 1967… “It’s the way you play that makes it . . . Play like you play. Play like you think, and then you got it, if you’re going to get it. And whatever you get, that’s you, so that’s your story.”  We are all story’s waiting to be told.  Mindfulness just gets your head back into the process.   There is fullness in every moment filled with possibilities and is unburdened by our expectations.

It’s easy to make mindfulness improve a part of your life. You already have it!  Just close your eyes and remember those moments when you played until your mom or dad had to pry you away.  Losing all sense of time, space, and everything that was outside of the moment you were fully engaged in.  Just go back.  Don’t think it is silly, maybe it is.  So what!  I know when I got the horrible news that I had breast cancer my mind froze.  Then I felt I was thrown into some vortex of fear, denial, loss, anger, betrayal and the fear surrounding death.  I knew in that precise moment that I had to go back to the times that mom and dad came to the tennis courts at my high school at nine o’clock at night to bring me home because it was dark and I was still hitting those iridescent yellow balls against a junior from Northwestern University who was an alumnus of my high school.  That is what being in the Jazz or in full WOW FACTOR MODE is all aboutAre you ready, then gear up, bring whatever suits your fancy ‘cause man this is gonna be out of sight!  See you there, keep looking for the space between the notes or words or artistic expression.  You will see that you are beyond WOW, You are Amazing!  Peace and Love Out!  JBC 😎 and ❤  It is like an Oreo, it’s Wonder- filled…

Japanese translation for meaning
Japanese translation for meaning

© Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Riffshot to A Poet’s Beat ~ Excerpt from Memoir featuring “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman Acoustic ambiance by The Rippingtons – “Pastels On Canvas”

Romare Bearden Collage
Romare Bearden Collage

Excerpt from Memoir…

I am the daughter of a 60s Jazz arranger/conductor where the reining tradition was “rents had the final word”.    I would hole up in my room for hours overhearing myself admit difficult truths that I could not hide from.  It welcomed creative inspirations into my sensory consciousness.    It gave me the chance to explore and discover the province of sound and words.   I found my rhythm. Mom taught me how to read when I was 3.  I was eleven years old when I had fallen in love with sound, art and most of all words.  Dad throughout all of the civil rights Tsunami did not faze him because he was driven to do the best on all levels for the upcoming Festival.  I followed suit in my own little way.  I survived by living in disguise. Since I was very young, the sanctity of my bedroom provided a canvas where I hoped, dreamed, set my own values and aspirations.  When I left my room I had to leave them behind like my books and other treasures tucked away on a shelf nestled in the opposite corner of the room.  I knew that Dad loved me, not without surrendering and bartering my own thoughts and feelings when he told me what I was supposed to want.  Dad repeatedly drummed into me that …being a doctor is where it’s at.  My foray into the jazz world began when I could feel my father intensity and determination of each note I mirrored in words at my desk.  I discovered and accepted the gifts and talents that Grandpa used to tell me… were gifts God gave me.  I let go of my family “persona”  free to let my imagination come alive and tap into my personal sense of purpose and who I really am.  Early mornings I would lie in bed hearing the music climb the stairs, it had a purpose, it had an intent – it was harmonic, it had a rhythm that grabbed my heart and rendered the beats to prepare me to go to my desk open my curtains and let the burst of the morning gently touch my face.  Jazz was transformative.  I was paralyzed by the feeling of losing my father’s love if I chose to follow my star.  I needed for him to tell me things would be okay.  That he would help me, encourage me, teach me the way things are in the world I was living.  How did he do it?  Every time I tried to step out of the role he was created in the song for me, he would resist.  So I would withdraw and try to convince myself that he knows what’s best for me.  I was so conflicted when he would teach me how to sight sing music, take me to his rehearsals and ask what instrument I wanted to learn how to play.  There were definitely rules of conduct and engagement with others.  There were two distinct behaviors, one associated with our home and private life and the one associated with our public life.  I spent most of the time in my room.  There the only rule was to be myself…. So here we go…

Just for today, I wanted to share poem that I read when I was eleven years old that somehow transformed my life…Hope you enjoy a mindfulness improv moment in jazz…Peace Out & Love JBC 😎 <3.

 

Song of the Open Road

BY WALT WHITMAN

1

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

 

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

 

The earth, that is sufficient,

I do not want the constellations any nearer,

I know they are very well where they are,

I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

 

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,

I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)

 

2

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,

I believe that much unseen is also here.

 

Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,

The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;

The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,

The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,

 

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,

They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,

None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.

 

3

You air that serves me with breath to speak!

You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!

You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!

You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!

I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.

 

You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!

You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

 

You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!

You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!

You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!

You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!

From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,

From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

 

4

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,

The picture alive, every part in its best light,

The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,

The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

 

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?

Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?

Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?

 

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,

You express me better than I can express myself,

You shall be more to me than my poem.

 

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,

I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,

I think whoever I see must be happy.

 

5

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,

Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,

Listening to others, considering well what they say,

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,

Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of space,

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

 

I am larger, better than I thought,

I did not know I held so much goodness.

 

All seems beautiful to me,

I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,

I will recruit for myself and you as I go,

I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,

I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,

Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,

Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

 

6

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not astonish me.

 

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,

It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

 

Here a great personal deed has room,

(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,

Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

 

Here is the test of wisdom,

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it,

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

 

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

 

Here is realization,

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

 

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;

Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?

Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

 

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos;

Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?

Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

 

7

Here is the efflux of the soul,

The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions,

These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?

Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;)

What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?

What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?

What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?

What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?

 

8

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,

I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,

Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

 

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,

The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,

(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)

 

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,

From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,

Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

 

9

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!

Traveling with me you find what never tires.

 

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,

Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

 

Allons! we must not stop here,

However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,

However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,

However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

 

10

Allons! the inducements shall be greater,

We will sail pathless and wild seas,

We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.

 

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,

Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;

Allons! from all formules!

From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

 

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.

 

Allons! yet take warning!

He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,

None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,

Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,

Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies,

No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

 

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,

We convince by our presence.)

 

11

Listen! I will be honest with you,

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,

These are the days that must happen to you:

You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,

You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,

You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,

What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,

You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.

 

12

Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!

They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,

Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,

Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,

Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings,

Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,

Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,

Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,

Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,

Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,

Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,

Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,

Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,

Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content,

Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,

Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

 

13

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,

To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,

To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,

Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,

To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,

To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,

To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,

To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,

To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,

To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,

To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,

To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,

To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,

To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.

 

All parts away for the progress of souls,

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

 

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.

 

Forever alive, forever forward,

Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,

Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,

They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,

But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.

 

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!

You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

 

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!

It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

 

Behold through you as bad as the rest,

Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,

Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,

Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

 

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,

Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,

Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,

In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,

Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere,

Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,

Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,

Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,

Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.

 

14

Allons! through struggles and wars!

The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

 

Have the past struggles succeeded?

What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?

Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

 

My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,

He going with me must go well arm’d,

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

 

15

Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

 

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!

Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!

Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

 

Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

 

Japanese translation for meaning
Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Jazz on Canvas ~ In Camera: The Men From Monterey ~ 3 Jazz men, 20 year Reunion n’ Me It Does Not Get Any Better Than This…featuring Gil Fuller & Monterey Jazz Festival Orchestra – “Man From Monterey” – 2007 – Remaster

Romare Bearden Jazz  Collages
Romare Bearden Jazz Collages

“I’m saying: to be continued, until we meet again. Meanwhile, keep on listening and tapping your feet.” ~   Count Basie

Excerpt from memoir. This was a conversation I had with my father on the way to the tenth Rehearsal of the MJFO in July, 1965….
The sunrise cast a warm glow through my picture window early Monday morning.  Dad is sitting at the piano in our living room making last-minute notations for the songs for rehearsal later today.  He is my five a.m. wake up call. I would hear dulcet tones sending a breath of notes across my mind to the beat of my existence.  It was a series of riffs and changes with a syncopated harmonic intent.  It had a rhythm that majestically brought a sense of devotion to each note.  The sound of him hitting each piano key gave the house a mystery, transforming life and setting our house apart from the rest of the houses on Wilton Place.

As we are driving to the rehearsal studio my dad turned to me I gave up traveling with the band so that I could devote myself to my family. I am really excited about getting back into the groove again.   You know Dizzy chose me to serve as music director and conductor for the Orchestra this year. In the ‘40’s I wrote Dizzy’s arrangements . That’s where we met.  Back in the day we played Bebop with folks like Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk.  We were best known for songs like “Manteca”, “Things are Here”, “One Bass Hit” and “Tin Tin Deo”. 

I know that I have offered you guitar lessons, but, being a musician, writer or singer leads to a hard life for you.  I know that you can do anything you want but just not anything creative because traditionally women are not appreciated or respected.  I am telling you this because I am your father.  I really want the best life for you. 

 I am numb.  I look at him hoping that he was joking but he quickly turned away, he is guilty of committing that very tradition in his orchestra.

We rode for the last 20 minutes in silence.    It is deafening.  I am the “native” daughter of the Jazz world in the ‘60’s where the reining tradition was parents (‘rents) had the final word.  I slump down in my seat staring out the window trying to recover.  I feel betrayed.   Deep down inside I always felt like I was a visitor especially when it came to expressing my feelings and even more so in the world.  To me being mixed race or checking the “Other” box is a perfect witness to my life.  My father is a very complicated man of contradictions.  So reading and writing poems became my escape.    It liberated me from the labyrinths of insuperable gender and race biases that tend to dissipate little girls like me.

I would hole up in my room for hours overhearing myself admit difficult truths that I could not hide from.  It welcomed creative inspirations into my sensory consciousness.    It gave me the chance to explore and discover the province of sound and words.   I found my rhythm and started writing poems and improvised prose. Mom taught me how to read when I was 3.

The rest of the drive to the rehearsal studio felt lonely.  Everything around me seemed to have vanished along with my excitement.  I shifted trying to compose myself.  I wanted to shake myself free from the volcano that just erupted in my soul.  Suddenly breaking my solitude my father proclaimed We Are Here!  My excitement returned.

The rehearsal was now under way.  It was an invitation to my imagination renewing my love for writing – cultivating a deep joy in my heart.  The studio fell silent. My father began to motion the count as he tapped his foot.  Calm waves from the alto sax and trombones began to move into the downbeat, the cymbal gently touches the shores of 4/4 time….Dizzy’s cheeks puffed out, his crazy angled trumpet bell releases the sounds of surprise announcing …the  Man from Monterey has arrived.

Ralph Gleason from the Chronicle summed up the day’s session perfectly on the album’s liner notes… he wrote The 1965 Monterey Jazz Festival music clearly is designed to last.  This amalgam of the talents of Gillespie and Fuller are insurance that it will. The orchestra played the music at this session for all time, which is the way good jazz is always played.

I had fallen in love with the sound of words, even though I had to keep it a secret.   I credit discovering my inner voice when immersed in the sound and creation of jazz music was realized at today’s session.  Now when I am facing cancer trials and tribulations, I write.  When I am grateful for the wonders of life and God’s blessings, I write.  When I am weary and discouraged, I write.  I always felt that my father didn’t want me to become a writer, it wasn’t until after his death that I found out it was just his way of letting me know that if I can take all the adversity and really feel that I had to write,  then I must write…..  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

Copyright 2011-2015  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Poet’s Beat on Jazz Canvas ~ Take This River by Henry Dumas featuring Seattle Women’s Jazz Orchestra – “Pura Emoción”

Courtesy of  Corey Barksdale Abstract Arts
Courtesy of Corey Barksdale Abstract Arts

Good Morning!  I came across this poem by Henry Dumas.  It speaks to a special place in my heart considering my journey and enjoying visual and acoustic portraits of the challenges we all face in life.  Welcome to my world!  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

 

 

TAKE THIS RIVER

by  Henry Dumas



We move up a spine of earth
That bridges the river and the canal.
And where a dying white log, finger-like,
Floating off the bank, claws at the slope,
We stumble, and we laugh.
We slow beneath the moon’s eye;
Near the shine of the river’s blood face,
The canal’s veil of underbrush sweats frost,
And this ancient watery scar retains
The motionless tears of men with troubled spirits.
For like the whole earth,
This land of mine is soaked….

Shadows together,
We fall on the grass without a word.
We had run this far from the town.
We had taken the bony course, rocky and narrow,
He leading, I following.
Our breath streams into October
As the wind sucks our sweat and a leaf…

“We have come a long long way, mahn.”
He points over the river
Where it bends west, then east,
And leaves our sight.

“I guess we have,” I pant. “I can hear
My angry muscles talking to my bones.”
And we laugh.

The hood of night is coming.
Up the river, down the river
The sky and night kiss between the wind.

“You know,” Ben says, “this is where
I brought Evelyn….
Look. We sat on that log
And watched a river egret
Till it flew away with the evening.

“But mahn, she is a funny girl, Aiee!
But she looks like me Jamaica woman….
But she asks me all the questions, mahn.
I’m going to miss her mahn, Aiee!

“But I will . . . Ewie. Ewie I love you,
But I do Ewie . . . Ewie . . . ,” he says
And blows a kiss into the wind.
Broken shadows upon the canal
Form and blur, as leaves shudder again…again

“Tell me this, Ben,” I say.
“Do you love American girls?
You know, do most Jamaicans
Understand this country?”

We almost laugh. Our sweat is gone.
He whispers “Aiee” on a long low breath

And we turn full circle to the river,
Our backs to the blind canal.

“But I’m not most Jamaicans….
I’m only Ben, and tomorrow I’ll be gone,
And … Ewie, I love you….
Aiee! My woman, how can I love you?”

Blurred images upon the river
Flow together and we are there….

“What did she ask you?” I say.
“Everything and nothing, maybe.
But I couldn’t tell her all.”
We almost laugh. “‘Cause I
Don’t know it all, mahn.

“Look, see over there….
We walked down from there
Where the park ends
And the canal begins

Where that red shale rock
Down the slope there . . . see?
Sits itself up like a figure,
We first touch our hands . . .
And up floats this log,
Not in the river
But in the canal there
And it’s slimy and old
And I kick it back . . .
And mahn, she does too.
Then she asks me:
Bennie, if I cry
When you leave would you
Remember me more?’
Aiee! She’s a natural goddess!
And she asks me:
‘Bennie, when you think of Jamaica
Can you picture me there?’
And while she’s saying this,
She’s reaching for the river
Current like she’s feeling its pulse.
She asks me:
‘Bennie, America means something to you?
Maybe our meeting, our love? has
Something to do with America,
Like the river? Do you know Bennie?’
Aiee, Aiee, mahn I tell you
She might make me marry . . .
Aiee! Ewie, Jamaica . . . moon!
And how can I say anything?
I tell her:
Africa, somewhere is Africa.
Do you understand,’ I say to her,
And she look at me with the moon,
And I hear the wind and the leaves
And we do not laugh . . .
We are so close now no wind between us . . .
I say to her:
‘Ewie, I do not know America
Except maybe in my tears….
Maybe when I look out from Jamaica
Sometimes, at the ocean water….
Maybe then I know this country….
But I know that we, we Ewie….
I know that this river goes and goes.
She takes me to the ocean,
The mother of water
And then I am home.’
And she tells me she knows
By the silence in her eyes.
I reach our hands again down
And bathe them in the night current
And I say: ‘Take this river, Ewie….’
Aiee, wind around us, Aiee my God!
Only the night knows how we kiss.”

He stands up.
A raincloud sailing upon a leak, whirs
In the momentary embrace of our memories….
“Let’s run,” I say, “and warm these bones.”
But he trots a bit, then stops,
Looking at his Jamaica sky.
“Let’s run the long road west
Down the river road,” I say,
“And I’ll tell you of my woman….Aiee.”
We laugh, but we stop.
And then, up the spiny ridge
We race through the trees
Like spirited fingers of frosty air.
We move toward some blurred
Mechanical light edged like an egret
And swallowed by the night.
Into this land of mine.
And the wind is cold, a prodding
Finger at our backs.
The still earth. Except for us.
And from behind that ebon cloak,
The moon observes….
And we do not laugh
And we do not cry, And where the land slopes,
We take the river….
But we do not stumble,
We do not laugh,
We do not cry,
And we do not stop….

Online Source: http://www2.mdcc.edu/north/asili/volii_3/nu00031.htm
Copyright © Loretta Dumas and Eugene Redmond, 1989/99

musical_note_clip_art_12518

 

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Part One ~ The Book Proposal for My Memoir: A Song From My Father: A Creative Journey of Race and Legacy ~ featuring Gil Fuller & Monterey Jazz Festival – Things Are Here –Performed by Dizzy Gillespie

I thought it would befitting to tell you that today is my birthday.  Also, last night I had an Aha! Moment when I realized that my website Fifty Shades of Jazz is a composite on canvas of my life….  Importantly it is a composite of the various aspects of my life.  That being said, I feel that I can conceive that there are more than just one book …1- my Breast Cancer journey with my mother (“Saved By Jazz), 2.  Jazz Poetry and Contemporary Visual Arts (“Visual & Acoustic Muse of Jazz), 3.  The one closest to my heart and what I need to write first…Memoir (“A Song From My Father:  A CREATIVE JOURNEY OF RACE AND LEGACY.

The album above would be the companion because it would provide the acoustic substrate for living in the 60’s during the Civil Rights Movement and Countercultural revolution that changed the face and life of America.  I would like to point out that my age is nothing but a number because it my no means does any justice to my challenges and finding meaning in my life or mindfulness improvisations that I learned from my father in the life lessons in jazz.  That jazz creates the same creative inspiration and my instrument and I have to play the utterances that manifest when listening to the sounds that are translated into words.  I would love to know what you are thinking when reading this post because it is the best way to know if I am making the sounds come true in my words.  Besides I love hearing from you…  Thank you for sharing my birthday with me…Peace Out!  JBC

Doodles and sketches for memoir
Doodles and sketches for memoir

Part One

Overview

 

If you were to put  bestsellers  filled  with ingredients  like jazz, culture, life lessons and being a musician, personal transformation and sustainability in MOVING TO HIGHER GROUND:  HOW JAZZ CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE; civil rights riots, insuperable chauvinism, the search for racial identification in America in THE COLOR OF WATER:  A BLACK MAN’S TRIBUTE TO HIS WHITE MOTHER; or have a consciousness raising of living the life you were meant to live as portrayed in DREAMS OF MY FATHER:  A STORY OF RACE AND INHERITANCE add a dash of cross generational creative spiritual journeys amidst the Civil Rights and Counterculture movements of the 50’s and 60’s  in her father’s life it was a passion and dedication to notes and in her life she had fallen in love with the sound of words and jazz, you would be reading A SONG FROM MY FATHER:  A CREATIVE JOURNEY OF RACE AND LEGACY.

In this lyrical, sentimental, and compelling memoir, the daughter of a Creole father and a white American mother searches for her voice and a sustainable creative meaning to her life as a Multiracial American.  It begins in New York in the 1950s on the Upper Westside where her father’s music career as an accomplished  Jazz composer/arranger and band leader take off and who wrote a song for her when she was three years old that inspires a creative spiritual journey in Los Angeles California in the 1960 decade..

The memoir will be divided into five parts of a song:

Overview

If you were to put  bestsellers  filled  with ingredients  like jazz, culture, life lessons and being a musician, personal transformation and sustainability in MOVING TO HIGHER GROUND:  HOW JAZZ CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE; civil rights riots, insuperable chauvinism, the search for racial identification in America in THE COLOR OF WATER:  A BLACK MAN’S TRIBUTE TO HIS WHITE MOTHER; or have a consciousness raising of living the life you were meant to live as portrayed in DREAMS OF MY FATHER:  A STORY OF RACE AND INHERITANCE add a dash of cross generational creative spiritual journeys amidst the Civil Rights and Counterculture movements of the 50’s and 60’s  in her father’s life it was a passion and dedication to notes and in her life she had fallen in love with the sound of words and jazz, you would be reading A SONG FROM MY FATHER:  A CREATIVE JOURNEY OF RACE AND LEGACY.

In this lyrical, sentimental, and compelling memoir, the daughter of a Creole father and a white American mother searches for her voice and a sustainable creative meaning to her life as a Multiracial American.  It begins in New York in the 1950s on the Upper Westside where her father’s music career as an accomplished  Jazz composer/arranger and band leader take off and who wrote a song for her when she was three years old that inspires a creative spiritual journey in Los Angeles California in the 1960 decade..

The memoir will be divided into five parts of a song:

~ Part One – Prelude will begin with a grace note of appreciation to my father.  Jazz as an Imitation of American Life will be a narrative of the author’s life  living immersed in 60’s Watts Riots and how the jazz world became her refuge and salvation.  Feature an article entitled THE UNRECOGNIZED TITAN by Leonard Feather, DOWNBEAT Magazine Feburary, 1966

~  Part Two  –  Measures – will lyrically capture how the author’s exposure to jazz rehearsals and interactions with musicians and writers provided a catalyst to living a creative life as a writer no matter what.  It is what one has to do to live with music or will die with noise and chaos.

~ Part Three – Chorus – will chronicle what the author discovered how mindfulness meditation and improvisation are the elements in jazz that musicians  used to make it through the strife and still expressing oneself as a way of coping and dealing with racism and chauvinism and hostility to be present and lean into her life actualizing a sense of serenity, a peace that thrives on understanding and acceptance. with grace

~ Part Four ~ Bridges – • Homecoming  the author was living in San Francisco, when she found out in November of 1989 that both of her parents were sick and I decided to come home to New York.  On her father’s deathbed the author had a chance to talk intimately with her father and tell him how miserable she felt because she was not living the life she felt was meant for her and wanted him to show her how and if he ever thought she had talent to write.  We came to an understanding before he died and I forgave him liberating us to transition opening his heart to die.

~ Part Five CODA – Finding My Way  – the author discovers the Gibson guitar her father kept for her in the basement and when opening it she realized that he kept all of my poems and journals nestled between the guitar and sheet music and a note he wrote ~ To My Daughter ~ I always knew you could write your heart out and I wrote a song for you to help you to discover that you cannot live without exploring and developing her gifts.

 

The memoir has approximately 75,000 words to date. The manuscript will be completed twelve months after receipt of the advance to help defray editing and publishing costs. It will be written under the pseudonym of Jannat Marie.

musical_note_clip_art_12518

 

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Excerpt from My Memoir: The Prologue (1st Draft)

healing spirit art creating circumstances
healing spirit art creating circumstances

It was Thursday, November 30th, 2000, a week after Thanksgiving.  It is a typical New York  City style event.  Sakes Fifth Avenue was ramping up piercing the veil of  festivities evoking spectacular window dressings that were dressed to the nines. The lighting of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center was set to be lit that evening to awaken and welcome the world to New York City ‘s Winter and Christmas’ Wonderland had arrived.  The Plaza was as beautifully bedazzled with lights  and folks in horse drawn carriages were riding through Central Park.

It was my last chance to make up for my loss and devastation resulting from my bilateral mastectomy.   Life, as I knew it six months before today, would be restored.  It meant to examine my tools and gifts to create what 1Peter with respect to creating a “spiritual house” which your tools will reveal your destiny.  10As each one has received a special gift, employ it in serving one another as good stewards of the manifold grace of God

Today, I am accepting and embracing everything that has happened in my life so far:  It began with  father’s death; my mom’s return of terminal cancer and continuing treatment; my diagnosis on April 14, 2000 (coincidentally on my father’s birthday); my bilateral mastectomy with all of it’s complications; my chemotherapy with all of its’ dreadful side effects; my loss of my job as a successful legal assistant for over 20 years; basically my whole life.  Today is my day; I get the chance to make things right with the world and my universe within.  I hoped that it was not just an illusion.

Counting, 100…99…95, I am breathing in life, I see my surgeon with her mask, her eyes were reassuring and smiling, I blink.  85…80 I open my eyes again halfway, I see my mom, beautifully 1960’s  coiffed light brown hair; almond shaped pools of peaceful hazel green eyes; skin so soft and radiant that has been paled by society’s proscriptions; a sweet smile that always masked the pain of living in two worlds, now standing by my side, smiling and leans over to kiss me on my cheek.  I hear the music of my father’s music that I gave the surgical team begin to play, “The Shadow of Your Smile”, it is filling the air, I am breathing and moving my soul– feeling every note.  75…70, I open my eyes again, I see my father, I can only see his face, I close my eyes tightly and slowly open them again, he is still there, he is smiling and leans over to kiss my forehead and says, “you are playing my music, I added the song I wrote for you when you were born, can you hear it?”  I feel myself nodding.  Darkness now has consumed me.

            The next time my eyes open I am in the ICU, I am connected to several machines, they are beeping.  Morphine drip is set on automatic.  I stir trying to find some comfort in being in a lot of pain and searching for relief.  I turn my head and open my eyes and I see Todd a friend from work is standing by my bed.  He said he sneaked in, my mom told him where I was.  We smiled and laughed.  Suddenly, an alarm went off—nurses and staff come running in.  I scream.  “What is going on?”  My mouth is covered with an oxygen mask.  My surgeon is now standing next to me,  says, “the graft failed, I have to take you back into the OR.”  I said “WAIT!  How long have I been in surgery?”  She answered, “16 hours.”  “What about my DNR?”  She said “your mom rescinded it.”  Suddenly my mother was beside the gurney as I was being wheeled to the OR that was awaiting me.  My mom motioned for them to stop the gurney, she positioned herself to be in front of me.  “I can’t mom, just let me go, ”  I cried.  She took my hand and said, “I need you, you have been my caregiver for the past 3 years and I still need you, I am your caregiver now and more importantly, it is not your time.

“Jannat” performed by Gilberto & His  Musicabana Orchestra

It meant that if God gives an assignment,  you also are given the skill.  So that meant to me to return to writing and art with all of my heart and it will reveal your wake or assignment.  That is when my journey became healed and was transformed.  My fears drifted into the darkness at the center of my soul.  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, I exhaled, letting go of the most frightening and painful parts of my life and awaked to the allow grace to flow into my life.   I began to feel as though I was sailing into uncharted waters, completely trusting and hearing the song my father wrote for me having faith that my life’s purpose and plan would take care of itself.    This is my song and story…

“…I keep looking for one more teacher, only to find that fish learn from the water and birds learn from the sky.” (p.275)”   ― Mark NepoFacing the Lion, Being the Lion: Finding Inner Courage Where It Lives

What do you think?  I would love for you to take a few moment to share your thoughts and comments, JBC 😎  Peace Out!

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

 

Poet’s Beat ~WORDS FOR JAZZ PERHAPS by Michael Longley feat. Art Farmer’s Darn That Dream

Abstract of Song
Abstract of Song

Many classical musicians believed that jazz was not to be evaluated on the same level as Puccini or Chopin jazz received a certain amount of respect from literary figures and classical musicians.  From the syncopated rhythms to the lyrical improvisation, jazz fascinated many people from “high society” in American culture.  With the elevation of this distinctly African-American art form came  respect and dignity that African Americans had often been deprived of.  So here’s to jazz and its wonderful and mysterious influence on contemporary visual & literary arts. Peace Out!  JBC 😎

WORDS FOR JAZZ PERHAPS

by Michael Longley

 

I
Elegy for Fats Waller
Lighting up, lest all our hearts should break,
His fiftieth cigarette of the day,
Happy with so many notes at his beck
And call, he sits there taking it away,
The maker of immaculate slapstick.

With music and with such precise rampage
Across the deserts of the blues a trail
He blazes, towards the one true mirage,
Enormous on a nimble-footed camel
And almost refusing to be his age.

He plays for hours on end and though there be
Oases one part water, two parts gin,
He tumbles past to reign, wise and thirsty,
At the still centre of his loud dominion –
THE SHOOK, THE SHAKE, THE SHEIKH OF ARABY.

II
BILLIE HOLIDAY
(An Epitaph)
DEATH, LIKE ALL YOUR HABITS, CAME TO STAY,
DARED FACE YOUR MUSIC, TOOK YOUR BREATH AWAY.

III
BUD FREEMAN IN BELFAST
(November 1965)
Fog horn and factory siren intercept
Each fragile hoarded-up refrain. What else
Is there to do but let those notes erupt.

Until your fading last glissando settles
Among all other sounds – carefully wrapped
In the cotton wool from aspirin bottles?

IV
TO BESSIE SMITH
You bring from Chattanooga Tenessee
Your huge voice to the back of my mind
Where, like sea shells salvaged from the sea
As bright reminders of a few week’s stay,
Some random notes are all I ever find.
I couldn’t play your records every day.

I think of tra-ra-rossan, Inisheer,
Of Harris drenched by horizontal rain –
Those landscapes I must visit year by year.
I do not live with sounds so seasonal
Nor set up house for good. Your blues contain
Each longed-for holiday, each terminal.

Japanese translation for meaning

 

Copyright © 2011-2014 by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.