An orchestra of my biological self, senses (a five piece band), and emotional body that feels. The small-mind of me, the higher-mind of me, and everything in between. My so-called soul and spirit. Holy it all is.
The out-there and the in-here. Jazz it is. All dependent on interdependence – they say.
And the presence – the silence – the space – that holds it all together: beautifully (or sometimes not), like jazz.
Beautiful to me. Not to others. Like Jazz. All beating to a different tune, and sometimes out of tune.
Complex it all is – until it’s not.
To be a good conductor of it all – skillful. Practice. The practice of orchestrating the complexities. Into beautiful sound. The beautiful sound of you. Of a jazzy you. Jazz I am.
Listen. Listen to the sounds. Listen to the beat. And listen to what’s offbeat. That person, that place, that thing; offbeat? Doesn’t feel good, doesn’t sound good – it’s presence doesn’t taste good…it beats to a different tune – a tune out of tune with you.
To depend on the out of tune. Depend on it to keep you in tune. It’s all an interplay of interdependence. Know this. Know your jazz.
Where’s your jazz?
Know what is your jazz and what is not. It might be time to quit the band – a band that has no more tempo, no more beat. Dead beat. When your heart beats not. Beats dead. Dead beat.
Jazz you are. Wake it up.
Feel the beat – of your own heartbeat. Wake up. Listen up. Feel up. Silence up. Jazz up.
Tune-up, tune in, and tune out. Tune out the old. Tune in the new.
New jazz you are.
It’s a little bit funny. This feeling inside. It’s not one that I can easily hide.
A style of life.
‘Lifestyle medicine’ he said, and I liked it. I liked knowing I could ‘treat’ my life. Treat the style of my life. To give myself a treatment plan of my own choosing.
Auditory I am. Sound. Frequency. Vibrations. Unseen they are, but felt they are.
Sometimes painful, sometimes less so- a mild discomfort – and sometimes not.
When the sounds of life feel like jazz.
To feel the unseen pleasure and pangs of life.
The intensity of ecstasy. Of feels like an injection of…heroin (maybe)…???..ecstatic electricity – with all the heightened jazz of sexual but sensual pleasure. Heaven (maybe).
The in.ter.course of music.
A gift to my body, which almost couldn’t contain the measure. It moved and adjusted on its own accord. In accordance to vibrations.
The orchestra was – in my mind. No separation – my body and mind… not separate from the music. I was the music. I was the orchestra. My body moved like a conductor- feeling the piano in the back of my brain, the cello on the right and the violin on the left.
A felt orchestra in my mind, and my body swirling to it all.
A silent musician I am.
Observing the silent jazz that swirls inside me.
Becoming a better musician. More in tune with my own attunement, atonement; the more I feel discord in others; cords out of tune.
Subtle it is – unbeknownst (to them) that I hear their silent jazz, in practice (maybe) they are.
Listen to the silence in order to appreciate the jazz.
Attraction it is.
A seductive luring from the ethers.
Punished for it as a child. Sin it was called. “Music is a sin,” they said.
And I can’t help myself – when the devil goes down to Georgia to see what He can find, I follow.
Five or six years old… memorized by heart, “Cecilia…you’re breaking my heart…your shaking my confidence daily….” in my own heavenly experience when my mom reached around and slapped the sin out of me. Following church orders to rightfully put me back in my place i.e. hell. Something about Cecilia making love also came out of my mouth.
So I learned to sing silently. Silent Jazz.
According to the church, I was attracted to all-things-sinful; Blonde, Rod Stewart, Neil Diamond. And so I became a rockstar in my own right- with my bed as the stage, my hairbrush as the microphone, and the mirror as my audience. Silent I was.
There was a depth of sadness and loneliness (as a child) that only music could comfort, so giving it up was not an option.
As a teenager and young adult, depressed and anxious I was: diagnosable. Hospitalized at times. Suicidal. Institutionalized. All that Jazz. And the grace of music never gave up on me. Music treated my internal woes, angst, and frustrations.
Devil medicine maybe. But all the same, music balanced my painful soul- kept me alive – kept “stringing” me along this thing called Life.
Glimpses. Felt glimpses of shiny sound. The music that chases me – captivates me- wants to show me something. And I follow.
Jazz. I know people who can’t handle jazz. And that’s okay. They experience jazz as noise; as too much going on at one time…they can’t feel into the silence or the still space that beautifully holds and orchestrates “too much going on”.
Some people can’t handle me – I am “too much” – I am the good, the bad, and the ugly – and it’s all okay. It’s all beautifully okay.
This is for all the Jazz Makers. For those of us who can appreciate jazz.
I do not play an instrument. I am not a musician. I am Silent Jazz – an internal orchestra, and learning how to play my part (my instrument, my song) in and for a felt humanity. Engaging with the internal ecstasy (drug-free), the internal felt beauty, felt sound, and all that jazz.
I am a writer, and this is my song…and this one’s for you.