Jack Spratt

120802 19:16 music

Music has always been more about God than sound, rhythm, fugue or anything specifically other. Maybe women who are a physical mass moveable sculpture heroic and mutable penetrable.

I noticed something extraordinary when writing my last two posts. A keening sound, maybe like a silent screaming of Maynard Ferguson or lyrical like Miles Davis with Gil Evans -- all of it -- similar yet not the same as those times I died to the pain of mother's violence erupting from and for nowhere and nothing particular like the time I saw my daughter born and knew her death instantly.

No. More like Rod Steiger's self stigmata on a desk spike while witnessing his proteges criminal behavior in The Pawnbroker. Yeah like that; again and again it sounds the presence of God and me up to my eye brows in an ocean of pain or joy breathing under water.

I never had a father instead I had friend then and during our times together even now when I think of his love of music mutilated by a need to make a living for me, my sister and mother and he. Talking about Charlie "Bird" Parker getting high on cinnamon behind Bird Land in the alley way none to be found for blocks all around. Yet when thinking saxophone I remember seeing Paul Desmond floating without his axe in a music store on 48th Street, Manhattan.

Yeah. When I hear music I see and sense and intuit and think: god. . . .and when I write now its not words but thanksgiving for passing through monolithic stones seeing the light on rushing towards me now.

Who else indeed could slake my curiosity as it is now all the causes of death of those I loved gone now.

Music so precious to me I can only play it while alone since I cry and sing and lurch dance and Annie understands watching me in joy celebrate what is for me a better experience of the Good of God. She sleeping and I sneaking peeking around corners silently she looks and I roll my eyes twitch my ears and make funny obscene motions with my tongue laughing as she rushes to me.

Oh well it's full moon time late summer passing the sun & moon dial of the Organ Mountains stars swimming and swirling and singing above at night alone with Annie in love with God who gave me what I sought not music or light but the joy of creating anything I wanted not waiting for the light or an assignment or anyone or anything now free to be me writing for the joy of it.

Thanks mom for giving me the mind of a Ninja and dad for learning me to value silence. Took me nearly forever to figure out and forgive the tutelage for which I am now so grateful; a god named Grace Amazing

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