Today’s session features Iolana, Sara, and myself, makin up songs, rockin out.
Family Time Rocks!
[audio:https://jmolin.com/newspaperandtrumpet/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/sara-iolana-jason-familytimerocks.mp3]
I’m In Tune With The Universe
[audio:https://jmolin.com/newspaperandtrumpet/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/sara-iolana-jason-wereintunewiththeuniverse.mp3]
Let It Be 1 & 2
[audio:https://jmolin.com/newspaperandtrumpet/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/sara-iolana-jason-letitbe.mp3]
[audio:https://jmolin.com/newspaperandtrumpet/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/sara-iolana-jason-letitbe2.mp3]
A few minutes left, that is all
And night descends like a curtain call
The mind runs through its lines, then night
And enter demons for the fight
But not a moral play plays out
Only the self to freely doubt
And then to wake again to live
As though there were and order given
Past a hundred thousand lines
All delivered, “I am fine”
Till our illusions become real
And as uneasy as we feel
—
Here I kneel, not out of homage
but to straighten my crained spine
as the harbor howls, filling with fog
and the book of prophets lays open
before me on the table beside my bottle.
My ghost in the glass accompanies me,
“Not fame or fortune did I seek,
but first knowing, finally arriving.”
I don’t remember much, but I woke this morning from a dream in which I was wandering around NYC, aimless, comical, like Chaplin, Keaton, perhaps even Harpo.
I had the sensitive, innocent, mischievous look of a man with nothing but curiosity and attraction to guide me, the comical little movements, unrequited and longing looks at all the disconnected people, buildings, stores, phenomenon, the optimistic magnetism of one trying to connect with everything only to be quickly followed with the sad thwarted look of a man turned away by everyone, finally resolved, each time, into the plaintive, content look of one who settles for his own little adventures, trip of emotions, hope of finding a woman who cares, a simple returned glance, a friendly smile, a friend or at least partner in melancholy among the homeless, the old, the children, the animals.
I was full of perfectly awkward gestures, little slips, contained modest movements…attempts to dance with the city like a big crude partner that keeps whirling me around, stepping on my feet, crushing me against the walls, the others, paying me no attention.
It ended with me sitting on a stoop, in a lonely corner slightly away from the crowd and it was all in black and white, silent.
I dreamt I was watching a show on the history of Jazz, and was immersed in it. On a train rocking along going back through the tough times of the 20s, 30s, 40s in black and white. From desperate poverty and outright racism came a song and dance that was more than victorious. It was Jazz. I don’t remember much but the end now (though there was a scene in which uncle Ted entered, with which I shared a moment of sympathetic adoration, comprehension of what Jazz was).
I was in a club watching Dizzy Gillespie perform at the end of his life. When I got there, I sat at the bar. Someone gave me some weed. I took a seat at the front of the spacious place across the empty dance floor from the band, where Diz stood leading. I fumbled with the weed b/c it was mixed with tobacco, separating it out as I could, but having a hard, distracting time trying to be inconspicuous. A guy next to me obviously wanted a toke, watching me, what I had. Finally I managed to half-way sort it out, but gave up, distracted again by the music, the performance.
Diz was having a great time and I became enthralled with his masterful mischief. At the end, the band had stopped but he was still scatting along, doing a little dance. I walked along with him as he sang and shuffled his way back toward the bar, across the big, clean place. As we approached the end of the empty floor, and our conversation –at least one other person was now hovering, wanting to talk to him– I asked him if he possibly remembered meeting Eric Molin. A subtlety pleased look of recognition came over him.
As he smiled back at me I told him that was my dad, that he had left me his trumpet –I got goosebumps, and pointed them out to Diz– and that dad had studied with the same teacher, Dizzy’s first, at which point his expression became a bit less comprehending. I said, “I love you Diz,” as I backed away, and the supremely celebratory scat and shuffle now became mine as I left him, singing my bebop, doing my little dance.
