What does it mean when I dream of trying on clothes at the stores in a mall with my mom and I’m so happy?
Oh and I’m not fat.
A writer’s job is to capture thought, feeling, and opinion in words. With music, the job’s that much harder. It’s good just doesn’t seem enough.
I tend to get flowery, more than a little stream-of-consciousness when I cover jazz and when I am overwhelmed with the sheer beauty of a performance. Nature of the beast.
The most beautiful fusion of them all is when classical music and jazz get together. In “Jazz & The Philharmonic,” legendary artists revisit the classical-jazz mindset with stunning clarity in a live DVD/CD package, out soon on OKeh Records.
Chick Corea, Dave Grusin, Terence Blanchard, Shelly Berg, Eric Owens, Elizabeth Joy Roe, Mark O’Connor, the Henry Mancini Institute Orchestra, Desmond Richardson… These artists know what they’re doing. They are professionals who are masters in the art of listening—essential to true jazz-classical improvisation.
Most people believe classical music has no room for improv. But jazz experts would disagree. This live album puts a lie to the myth anyway.
Next Monday, I review “Jazz & The Philharmonic” for Examiner. I have my work cut out for me. Expect to read a lot of superfluous poetry in place of useable information.
Bottom line: This album forced me to endure classical music in all its elements, from the orchestra to the opera, and I didn’t mind one bit. And, Chick Corea, who is no spring chicken, still attacks the piano like no one else. He can make his notes ring.
Don’t worry. Eyes on the prize.
First order of business is cutting back on the coffee I’ve allowed back semi-regular. Might be contributing to the light waves of nausea.
I dropped off a camera for a friend to borrow and she gave me three size 8 jackets. Fat man in little coat. I’m safely a 12. I’d be shocked at 10. But I have no plans on losing any more weight once I’ve reached 140 lbs.
I’m not losing weight to bring all the boys to my yard. That day has passed in 1989. I’ve already picked my boy, married and had a child with him. We’re happy the way we are.
I’m losing enough weight so I don’t get diabetes, period. Otherwise, I’m kind of enjoying the ride, rediscovering my running form, getting used to 40 minutes straight on the treadmill, trying to ignore the hemorrhoid popping out and the occasional IBS-D flare-ups involved.
Right now, my only goal however hazy is to defy my family’s wishes and fly back home to Hawaii in November for my 50th birthday. I can see myself running my familiar Waikiki route every sunset, feel the warmth of that sun stroking my body, smell the plumeria in the air as I hear the Hawaiian music and the sounds of children playing baseball.
I want to feel young again. Does that make sense?
Go without my family? Well, it’ll be 7th grade for our son. I can’t pull him out of school. We can celebrate with a dinner out or something when I get back, piggybacking on my wedding anniversary.
Gee, I’m already 3/4ths into this, aren’t I?
I just don’t know how I can pull off a 50th here in the cold, the rain, the strangers. It’s not home. And flying down to L.A. for a Baked Potato/InOut drive-way doesn’t seem right, either.
In the back of my head, where the still, small voice lives forever, I think … She only brought me in for laughs and when she finds someone funnier, she will go away like the others.
So I wait, trying on this foreign garment of happiness until the user wants it back.
I’m not enough for the long haul.
He says my name like a prayer in the night.
He never tells. I’ll never know.
So it goes, so it goes.
How can I describe the myriad of light and dark at war within me, threatening to spill over when I pour my tea, or reach for the metal spoon at the back of the dish rack — tucked between the potato peeler and the set of knives?
The past week was good to me. Too good.
I woke up this morning afflicted again: the sudden onslaught of blinding terror in an everyday, routine drudgery, walking without underwear on tightrope, feeling my bowels give at any moment.
I hear you slept one hour. I could sleep 100.