Only stray dogs keep me company as the sand passes over my face, in search of a land in which dunes are almost extinct.
(O’Hara died on the dune, at lunchtime).
“Ana Bahebak”
I shout at the girl in the white vale (oh wait; it is only a Fata-Morgana). It was only a rabid hyena, prowling in the blazing sun, waiting for the Halal butchers to come back from their prayer in hope to get a rancid piece of old meat. A smell of peculiar incense tickles my nose. A familiar yet ominous one…”
Why do writers always write about writers? Is it because we know it is all a facade, so we try to mystify the role of the writer in order to escape judgment from our fellow man? Is it because we believe that the writer has the most potential of leading a life that is worth telling a story about? Or is the plane “write what you know” that some old unsuccessful sage advised us when we thought of perusing writing as a craft?
Jean Cocteau was right. A true artist needs to be like a high-rope walker, standing bone crushing distance from the ground, relying on his instincts and faith that he can do it. Or maybe it is more extreme. An artist should be as a boxer. He should sacrifice his body, his mind, his pride as the sensation the champion gets as he is knocked down by a young contender. In the ring the bluff is revealed. The evidence is the swollen lip, the broken nose, the ringing of the ears and the battered scull.
Growing up I used to be hooked on Jazz, which for a long time I considered to be exactly that type of art, putting it all on the line. My favorite instrument was the baritone.
Baritone sax is one of the elusive of instruments. Its sharp, low toot makes one’s body quiver as sound waves become thicker, creating micro-gusts as they float through a crowded cafe.
If tenor is king and alt is the prince, baritone is the knight on the dark horse, riding swiftly, leaving no mark but a trail of floating leaves. Seven baritones crumbled the walls of Jericho.
Their echo is still vibrant today, creating tsunamis, Katrina and the eruption of Eyjafjallajökul. I would imagine the sax turning into clay, the musician gets infected and metamorphoses into a clay figure, still, but the sound is still coming out, the Golem of Jazz.
I remember the moment I realized Jazz has died.
I stand at the back. My dark sunglasses make the cafe seem even darker. I relish the public darkness. My voyeuristic nature comes out behind the shades. Here is a couple on their first date. The guy is enjoying the free form cacophony. The girl doesn’t get it. There will not be a second date.
The baritone shouts. I understand what he’s saying. I don’t agree with it.
He is a young black cat, around twenty. A small beard and an empty look. Jazz is the epitome of Dao. Achieving oneness by being vacuous. “Who is meditating?” my college professor asked in our Eastern Philosophy lecture. If the point is to disconnect from ego, what is left when you succeed?
A friend is late and I get anxious. The gig is nearing a close. The drummer and bass are racing now. The drummer seems hungry. He has one foot off the set. His solo is un-inhibited and perplexing. If I had not see him beat the drums to a pulp, twisting rhythms and flipping tempos, I would assume that he had not played a day in his life.
The band finishes on a roar. The crowd, mid-thirties, mid-class, mid-city, are clapping and whistling. Some of them are steaming. The weekend is their time off the reservation, working 10 hour days in hijacked building in the old city center. Guild-halls and old monarch building were bought by international corporations and banks. Jazz doesn’t belong to hoodlums, fast ladies and smack-heads anymore. It’s now stored in a tempered glass display cabinet, a cerebral attempt at spontaneity, in up-class night clubs with two drinks minimum. One meaningful quote about the subject is attributed to Frank Zappa: “Jazz ain’t dead; it’s just smells funny.”
Under the awning I stand, smoking, staring at a black haired girl laughing.
I look at my watch, he is still not here.
Jazz is filled with ancient spiritual dimensions: Zulu, Gospel, West-African Voodoo, Klezmer, and Yoruba.
Its spiritual dimension has been lost in the race for acceptance, becoming academic instead of emotional.
Maybe I was being too romantic and nostalgic about an age I have never experienced, but as I stated earlier, it does not matter.
