This is an excerpt from my memoir “The Sound I Felt” ~ The Feelin’ ain’t gone, it’s filled with riffs from the past, present and future.
When I woke up yesterday morning, the first day of the Monterey Jazz Festival I discovered that my breast cancer treatment was scheduled for the same day. The one thing that I have discovered on the road to Monterey is that no matter where I am – I am always there. All is well.
It’s Saturday, September 19, 2015. Today I headed to Fisherman’s Wharf. There was a Tsunami of emotional memories that came like a wave of healing that inspired me to expand on this whole idea of moving from Seattle, Washington back to my jazz roots in Monterey. I am living in the East Bay but BART is my portal back to the 1965 MJF fairgrounds for day two of this year’s festival.
When the idea (in my terms the “melody”) in this case covering the Festival, breast cancer always seems to hit the bottom notes creating my counter melody. So jazz and its’ culture becomes the ambient substrate for me to write harmonic riffs and changes to heal my life and to improvise a way to have the best of both worlds. There are three categories that describe ways which folks approach life. Inner-directed, other-directed and tradition-directed.
Growing up, my father through his music and living style demonstrated and showed me that I am an Inner-directed individual. In my sixty years, I can’t think of any musician, artist or writer who is not. Inner directed people don’t care about anything except what they want to do most! On the other hand I have gone to school and have friends that are other-directed that don’t appear to have a sense of their identity based upon the approval of others or the world around them. In the 70s when I was graduating from college and I tried to make my father happy by going to medical school, the tradition-directed approach would be the best way to describe following the rules that were handed down from my father’s dream for me and past. There were many discordant harmonies that threw me off balance and caused a tremendous amount of conflict, dis-ease and most of all an identity crisis. Don’t you know that mixed chicks don’t fit in anywhere.
Life is not linear even though it is based upon notes that are on a scale. Mindfulness constantly reminds me of how I am feeling. When the melody and rhythm are bathed in jazz form, there is freedom to explore and to live within the discomfort and acceptance brings about healing on all fronts.
This is a prelude to the next segment ~ Riff Words ~ Monterey Jazz, Then & Now on my Kindle…
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If we could learn to live from the level of the soul, we would see that the best, most luminous part of ourselves is connected to all the rhythms of the Universe.”Deepak Chopra
I love living on the level of my soul because all of my fears and anxiety evaporate. I hear17 Mile Drive playing on my car stereo. The conga begins kicking into gear and my heart follows suit. The horns move in with an immense flourish of sound like the waves messaging the shore. The ocean is blue in reflection of the sky. No clouds, just an azure blue that awashes my soul with jazz, James Moody begins blowing changes that take me out of my anxiety. The resistance from childhood that have pent up negative emotions release me from the prison without windows. My ego is the warden. I ignore my ego moving past any and all limitations of my mind that hints of cancer and all things related to outcomes and situations in my world. The orchestra signals the future is now. The horns and rhythm syncopation is aligning with the waves in the ocean. I hear the entire orchestra and the timbre of each instrument cannot be heard without the punctuation of silence. Debussy described it as Music is the space between the notes. I am filled with infinite stillness as I drive navigating the salacious curves of the road. I am suspended in the soul of jazz.
Each of us sees and listens to the world in a different way. And what we perceive is what determines our inner experience. The resistance of all the negative emotions binds us and in my case becomes a physical phenomenon. When I look in my rearview mirror I let go of all perceptions and emotionalized somatizations choosing to see things in a whole new light. The breeze gently caresses my face.
Moody enters with a flourish of expressing his experiences and emotions in that particular moment. Yoga has taught me that this feeling is a connection to the energy of the sea. I am a spirit energy that can take on the appearance of an individual. I am in a place where I am the inner witness. Tears of joy flood my eyes bursting with sound energy that connects to 1965 memories of the Riots and the Monterey Jazz festivities and events that are constantly being recycled, renewed and are played over and over again.
The events that have occurred in my life no matter how much of a mess I believe them to be, I am searching for the Truth that resides in my soul and it is universal. Starting each day anew I find that listening to jazz symbolizes an opening to the mystery that Maslow describes as the peak experience. As I round the last curve the orchestra responds to Moody’s improvisation and reaches a crescendo signaling the limitless wonders are coming full circle and the ending by complimenting the continuous sound that merge into the beginning. Igor Stravinsky said it best… “I am in the present. I cannot know what tomorrow will bring forth. I can know only what the truth is for me today. That is what I am called upon to serve, and I serve it in all lucidity.” On that note, I have crossed the threshold and am taking full responsibility for the life that God gave me. Is there a song that gives you moments of infinite stillness? Life is a celebration. I am preparing for returning to Monterey and celebrating the fifty shades of living the life that is waiting for me…. I am prepared to give my heart to loving life as it appears and all those that come into it. Peace and Love Out! JBC 😎 & <3.
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I love Moveable Feast Monday mornings because it is my day to kick my week into gear listening to jazz and conjuring up recipes that comfort the soul. So get your groove on with…M. Dolphy
Now for the Pièce de résistance! Bon Appétit! Peace and Love Out! JBC 😎 & ❤
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My year of living musically focused on the ability to listen to discern one style from another. There are specific characteristics that can allow you to search for the truth in our hearts and through self-expression that bring us closer. Listening intentionally make those sounds come true. Hearing is the foyer to listening in the parlor, where self-analysis leads to a better understanding of yourself and others. I had a conversation the other day and it felt as though they were not listening. I could tell from the questions they asked. Hearing has become commonplace and superficial in its nature. Your voice is not heard because of the weeds that grow out of only hearing, and not engaging. It is a symphony of cacophony. The sounds at the end of the day left me feeling barren and alone. I befriended my voice in my head, only to hear how sterile and contrived life had become. It was a conspiracy of nay-sayers that can bring only darkness to the light. Hard hearted they come and crowd my voice separating me from my soul. On the bright side it is only temporary and you can turn things around in any given moment.
Hearing is illusion personified by benign neglect. Reading aloud in a language you cannot understand. To have ears, that had become defended by the madness and noise of society. Let’s Play
So jazz does not have to be an acquired taste. I began listening to jazz in my mother’s womb. Dad took me to rehearsals and recording of the Monterey Jazz Festival Orchestra when I was nine years old and I became a fan instantly. Transforming the sounds to words and art I felt inside. I had fallen in love with sound and words. Dad taught the basics about jazz music and the musicians form of self expression and improvisation. It will enhance your listening experience immensely. So, lean back, open your mind and heart as we begin our wonderful process of exploring jazz terrains and vistas. Peace Out!
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One of the best features of jazz living always involves having jazz playing in the living room when planning meals and menus that promotes wellness and sustainability especially when times are hard and cost of food continues to rise. That being said, in the Manteca Backstory the video of the live performance but this version will awaken your visual and acoustic sensibilities. For this post I just wanted to bring the cool acoustic vibes and Dizzy’s signature horn sound in concert with Afro Cuban rhythms that will set the tone for a party of one or just a party of your closest friends and family. Holiday season is just around the corner and pot lucks will abound. No worries I will continue to find or create healthy delicious recipes under the category Jazz Bytes. So let’s get back to today’s dish. Mind you this pasta ain’t your nona’s recipe – but it’s also way better for you. Add in some amazing sauce and raw vegan “meatballs” and you’ve got yourself a meal. I am willing to admit that the first time I made alone. I usually make this dish for New Year’s to kick off things with a different beat! Bon Appétit! With Love & Peace Out …JBC ❤ & -8)
Meatballs:
4 cups Portobello mushrooms, roughly chopped
1 cup walnuts, soaked overnight
½ yellow onion, chopped
1 clove garlic
1 T apple cider vinegar
¼ cup parsley
2 t cumin
1 T Nama Shoyu
½ t salt
Marinara sauce:
1 cup Brazil nuts, (I use raw Cashews they are easy to find here in Seattle) soaked overnight
1 cup sun-dried tomatoes, soaked overnight
1 medium tomato
3 T lemon juice
3 T olive oil
1 T agave nectar
1 t red pepper flakes
1½ t salt
Puttin’ things all together:
♪ Spiralize or use a mandolin*, or a peeler shave zucchini into noodles. Toss with ½ t of salt and set aside in a colander to drain. *I use a mandolin and then I lay the zucchini flat in a stack and thinly (linguine size) slice through. I don’t peel the skin, just scrub it clean of debris and it looks festive.
♪ Drain walnuts and add all meatball ingredients (except the Portobello mushrooms) to the food processor and blend, then add Portobello mushrooms and blend for a few pulses.
♪ Roll meatballs into balls, place in dehydrator overnight or in the oven on parchment paper for about 1-2 hours at 200F, depending on your oven’s temperature.
♪ Drain Brazil (Cashew) nuts and sundried tomatoes and add all sauce ingredients to food processor. Blend. Set aside in a bowl.
Assemble everything on a plate. Now it’s time to let your creative spirit soar. Let your inner culinary artist free. This is the part that puts my signature onto the plate
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For a movement that was all about the “now”, the Beats have had a pretty good run on a self=serving, drug induced coma like ideology that, when getting a closer look is counter intuitive to the life he lived and wrote about. It has been over 50 years since Jack Kerouac published his first novel, “The Town and the City” where he identified the sub counterculture the “Beat Generation.” Unfortunately he left out the essence and most vital feature of the ”Counterculture Movement. That includes Jazz, Black People, Women and Well, Pretty Much Everything Else in and out of time.
Kerouac Courtesy of itstartswithindotcom
The Beat industry kicked into overdrive on and off since Kerouac’s death. His On the Road is considered the “Holy Grail” of the Beats. It is a jumble of car journeys, joints and jazz that had already skipped over an entire musical genre before its publication in 1957. It continued to spiral out of control and moved further from its original context from which it was conceived. The movie became popular a few years ago however, it was popularized for reasons completely different from what it was intended. The generation that embraced it was iconoclastic in its experience and understanding of the Civil Rights movement and further perpetuates a “feeling good and cool” which is not grounded in anything but a Selfie imagining being a selfie in a selfless world.
First Space Selfie Courtesy of Pinterest
Fortunately for its reputation, On the Road is not a book many people would want to read once or even twice. I barely could get into what he was trying to get across. Sort of like being the “James Dean” of the writer set in terms of a rebel without a cause or the uncause of the counter culture of the Beatnicks. It is reported to have been written in three weeks – at tell it slant, but there is no truths not even a message. It seems to come across as being pretentious, superlative and nauseatingly repetitive and logy. I can’t figure out why everyone seems to be suffering from withdrawal and was crying out the word “sad”. Maybe that is the Selfie. However, there is a big problem with the book on its face. The egregious treatment of women — none of whom were depicted as having an intelligent thought. This sensibility continues into the racial realm, if you lived in the ‘50’s or the early 60’s you know that wanting to be Black from a white suburban youth’s perspective was non existent and simply a fabrication that is so very far from the truth. It is believed that this insensitive, shallow and false personification non extant POV is what formed the basis of Norman Mailer’s ponderous 1957 essay The White Negro, which was allegedly inspired by Kerourac’s Beat example. “In the worst of perversion, promiscuity, pimpery, drug addiction, rape, razor-slash bottle-break, what-have-you,” Mailer opined, “the Negro discovered and elaborated a morality of the bottom…” This seems to be some misguided, misrepresented and an inaccurate account that had become typical for adversities of racial unrest, discrimination, chauvinism and supremacy that insticated the Civil Rights Movement in America. Jazz is an American art form that inspired genius such as Ellington’s Shakespeare suite
Designers and Labels of the 1950’s
Miles Davis’ music score for Louis Malle’s film Ascenseur pour L’echafaud. Unfortunately to Mailer, Kerouac and the Beats jazz was about drugs, alcohol and incoherency. This misunderstanding of jazz, Blacks, Women basically American life accounts for the focal problem of what the Beats were really about. Nothing! That has got to change and there is no time like the present to set things right. I’ve been there and to a large extent, still am, but I am about to set the Jazz world on fire because I have been immersed in the Jazz culture all of my life and have had the opportunity to see Jazz differently. Being Jazz has become a truth that through mindfulness improv meditation, has brought the truth into the light and let the falsehoods and lies remain in the shadows because it does nothing when it comes to serving the American Culture and the world for that matter. It is time to be awakened to our differences and not feared and demeaned by them. Peace and Love, JBC 😎 and <3.
The Torah teaches You shall do no injustice in judgment…
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Roasted Winter Vegetable Jambalaya with garden grown root veggies. Courtesy a la pinterest.com
I started cooking when I was in the 7th grade in Los Angeles when I signed up for Home Economics and Woodworking. Growing up with my father meant we were always in some sort of class, on Saturday’s I remember sitting at the white marble table in our family room with my brother and my father bringing in electronic parts so we could either build an oscillator or on this particular Saturday, we built a Crystal Radio. My father had remodeled our house on Wilton place which was basically an eleven room house. Entertaining was a large part of the LA scene. So when I came home elated that I mastered “White Sauce” on the stove. My father thought it was only fitting that he get the Time Life World Recipe Cookbooks with pictures you would salivate just looking at them. My father was the real cook in the house. So he not only taught me how to cook Jambalaya the authentic way. Cancer has taught me the value of not compromising the taste for good healthy foods that not only sustains you but promotes wellness and thriving. So my Jazz foodie comrades here is a version that you will not only enjoy but, meat lovers will find it a tasty repast. Now things would not be proper if you didn’t add the sounds,,, So let’s get to it….
1 c brown rice (my favorite is “Easy Cooking Whole Grain Brown Rice Suoyhaka Genmai” rinsed and soaked overnight and strained for1 hour before cooking.
Sauté onion, paprika, red pepper, chili powder, etc. in I for 5 min add brown rice
and sauté until smell the nutty aroma mix in diced tomatoes and tomato paste and stir for 3 to 5 minutes. Remove and set aside.
Roast vegetables on foil or parchment paper. Mix all vegetables in a bowl with EVOO, Creole seasoning and spread evenly in a shallow pan. Dust with pepper.
Roast for 40 to 45 minutes.
Bring rice mixture back onto the burner. Heat the vegetable broth to light boil and turn on rice mixture and pour broth into Dutch oven. Add the roasted veggies and mix very well with wooden spoon. Turn heat to low medium to light simmer, cover and cook for approximately 45 minutes remove from stove leave lid on and let stand and steam for 10 minutes more. I prefer to use the same pot for that down home feel, you may want to use your favorite serving dish. Now it is time to put the Garnish of cilantro and green onions (scallions) . Serve with greens or simple salad, French garlic bread and I like sweet green tea, but, wine or beer works. Perfect for football, soccer or even tennis matches. I like to have a light dessert like sorbet and fresh fruit. Pipe in the sound for a nice ambiance and Bon Appétit. Peace & Love! JBC 😎 ❤
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The glow of my campfire is dark red and flameless,
The circle of white ash widens around it.
I get up and walk off in the moonlight and each time
I look back the red is deeper and the light smaller.
Scorpio rises late with Mars caught in his claw;
The moon has come before them, the light
Like a choir of children in the young laurel trees.
It is April; the shad, the hot headed fish,
Climbs the rivers; there is trillium in the damp canyons;
The foetid adder’s tongue lolls by the waterfall.
There was a farm at this campsite once, it is almost gone now.
There were sheep here after the farm, and fire
Long ago burned the redwoods out of the gulch,
The Douglas fir off the ridge; today the soil
Is stony and incoherent, the small stones lie flat
And plate the surface like scales.
Twenty years ago the spreading gully
Toppled the big oak over onto the house.
Now there is nothing left but the foundations
Hidden in poison oak, and above on the ridge,
Six lonely, ominous fenceposts;
The redwood beams of the barn make a footbridge
Over the deep waterless creek bed;
The hills are covered with wild oats
Dry and white by midsummer.
I walk in the random survivals of the orchard.
In a patch of moonlight a mole
Shakes his tunnel like an angry vein;
Orion walks waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean;
Leo crouches under the zenith.
There are tiny hard fruits already on the plum trees.
The purity of the apple blossoms is incredible.
As the wind dies down their fragrance
Clusters around them like thick smoke.
All the day they roared with bees, in the moonlight
They are silent and immaculate.
SPRING, SIERRA NEVADA
Spring of full bloom in Sierra Nevada
Once more golden Scorpio glows over the col
Above Deadman Canyon, orderly and brilliant,
Like an inspiration in the brain of Archimedes.
I have seen its light over the warm sea,
Over the coconut beaches, phosphorescent and pulsing;
And the living light in the water
Shivering away from the swimming hand,
Creeping against the lips, filling the floating hair.
Here where the glaciers have been and the snow stays late,
The stone is clean as light, the light steady as stone.
The relationship of stone, ice and stars is systematic and enduring:
Novelty emerges after centuries, a rock spalls from the cliffs,
The glacier contracts and turns grayer,
The stream cuts new sinuosities in the meadow,
The sun moves through space and the earth with it,
The stars change places.
The snow has lasted longer this year,
Than anyone can remember. The lowest meadow is a lake,
The next two are snowfields, the pass is covered with snow,
Only the steepest rocks are bare. Between the pass
And the last meadow the snowfield gapes for a hundred feet,
In a narrow blue chasm through which a waterfall drops,
Spangled with sunset at the top, black and muscular
Where it disappears again in the snow.
The world is filled with hidden running water
That pounds in the ears like ether;
The granite needles rise from the snow, pale as steel;
Above the copper mine the cliff is blood red,
The white snow breaks at the edge of it;
The sky comes close to my eyes like the blue eyes
Of someone kissed in sleep.
I descend to camp,
To the young, sticky, wrinkled aspen leaves,
To the first violets and wild cyclamen,
And cook supper in the blue twilight.
All night deer pass over the snow on sharp hooves,
In the darkness their cold muzzles find the new grass
At the edge of the snow.
FALL, SIERRA NEVADA
Fall In The NC Mountains-L
This morning the hermit thrush was absent at breakfast,
His place was taken by a family of chickadees;
At noon a flock of humming birds passed south,
Whirling in the wind up over the saddle between
Ritter and Banner, following the migration lane
Of the Sierra crest southward to Guatemala.
All day cloud shadows have moved over the face of the mountain,
The shadow of a golden eagle weaving between them
Over the face of the glacier.
At sunset the half-moon rides on the bent back of the Scorpion,
The Great Bear kneels on the mountain.
Ten degrees below the moon
Venus sets in the haze arising from the Great Valley.
Jupiter, in opposition to the sun, rises in the alpenglow
Between the burnt peaks. The ventriloquial belling
Of an owl mingles with the bells of the waterfall.
Now there is distant thunder on the east wind.
The east face of the mountain above me
Is lit with far off lightnings and the sky
Above the pass blazes momentarily like an aurora.
It is storming in the White Mountains,
On the arid fourteen-thousand-foot peaks;
Rain is falling on the narrow gray ranges
And dark sedge meadows and white salt flats of Nevada.
Just before moonset a small dense cumulus cloud,
Gleaming like a grape cluster of metal,
Moves over the Sierra crest and grows down the westward slope.
Frost, the color and quality of the cloud,
Lies over all the marsh below my campsite.
The wiry clumps of dwarfed whitebark pines
Are smoky and indistinct in the moonlight,
Only their shadows are really visible.
The lake is immobile and holds the stars
And the peaks deep in itself without a quiver.
In the shallows the geometrical tendrils of ice
Spread their wonderful mathematics in silence.
All night the eyes of deer shine for an instant
As they cross the radius of my firelight.
In the morning the trail will look like a sheep driveway,
All the tracks will point down to the lower canyon.
“Thus,” says Tyndall, “the concerns of this little place
Are changed and fashioned by the obliquity of the earth’s axis,
The chain of dependence which runs through creation,
And links the roll of a planet alike with the interests
Of marmots and of men.”
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.
“Mindfulness means paying attention in a particular way; on purpose, in the present moment, and nonjudgmentally.” –Jon Kabat-Zinn
Because there really is still a chance for peace — and that chance will definitely increase if we each do our piece. It is ultimately up to us, each one of us, all of us, individually and together, to create the kind of world in which we want to live — to be the change we seek — starting right here, right now. Within the context of our immediate lives, within the concentric circles of our ordinary interactions. With each step that we take, we must walk our talk, speak our truth and put our money where our mouth is. ~ Mama Donna Henes, “Being Change Changes Everything”
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.
“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.
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Fifty Shades of Jazz 
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