Instrumental

Another time, another little cycle of life and death. What is man but an acorn, wanting so badly to be a grown tree? Well...how does it work then? Jazzy syncopation is a thing unheard of to most, so how is it, how is it that there is no lightness in the damp and it's all so piano and dry? Everything seems to travel along a spectrum, shadow to light, and there is something feathery even in shadow. Caustic. It is the only adjective at all, Caustic sadness, Vaudeville, decadence, hear the glorious ROAR! I'm havin' fun with my melancholy Upstarts experimenting in culture, wealthy alternations of image, charleston-ing around, taking small steps(striding, leaping), but traveling so far. There is, rather truly expressed, a suave touch of soul through external apparel. Take a depressant to experience some joy, 4-4 time to the drums of denial, Illuminate the figures, hazy in smoke, streets so wonderful, seeking, Seeking, in furs or hats some internal calamity bound beneath the pavement, or in the hardwood of the stage-- Look, look, see. Every angle and nuance and cranny holds the local Venus. Every photograph an architectural arrangement, keep the Lydian tone in the bop, sweep by the first and third, to explode our imploding sense of hearing on the second and fourth notes. Deep in the throat, nothing can be sad through brass instruments. In a state of perfect denial, Maybe the euphoria of then was as such because there was no seeing the drop. What's comforting about excess is the sensation of coming from a state of less To a state of MORE. Heliotrope, subtle ambers and purples, Omega Point reached, transhumanism in infinite perception, all through the baritone, the tenor, the alto, the soprano. Heat, but not burning, or searing, an infusing warmth, the kind from science fictional fire-liquids, they exist now, It's called music. They invented dissonance, which equals connection. Being apart, makes me a part, but an integral part, and inside, apart, inside. Funny how things apart are in fact just on the other side. There is no way, passages, sound, kill for a bit of life, sound, God-almighty sound, an individual among a throng of American Bachs, a flock of Freuds. I'd wake up Bix any day just for a sense of heebie jeebies to wash over. Orleans, so old, is still new in my heart. Flat, minor to the major, I find myself inadequate to it all. I can't tell you what Jazz does to me, how it makes me feel. As our associate Louis said, "Man, if you have to ask, you'll never know." I'm an instrument of my imagination, and my physical self an instrument of my intellect, and everyone I know, every music creating hump of brass and wood, all is utilized, creation stems from stepping from the wielded to the wielder. Making me instrumental once again, in the mission indefinable, life.