Si vis pacem, para bellum

Between the lights of distant street lamps, I write among the trash, the scum of the beer quivers in my glass , as I recount the touches of my fingers on this narrative. All the while the house band bounces off the walls out the door, down to the harbor.

 I nod to Freddie as if to say "Si vis pacem, para bellum" as he starts his solo. Thus the pebble is cast into the pond of eyes.

 So here I am looking at the city map again: Three streets west, and 2 down. I heard they need more heads, but they can't pay much more than 3 cocktails.

 "Hey man, Let's go south 4 stops and 2 east, see how we fare", Freddie says.

 3 Beers.

"how about west", he tries again

I say:

"you best be tuning that base in the train man. I feel like these days we make our ways in between the gigs, in between the tunes, in the trains, under moons."

"cut it out man, we don't need any of that. Leave your verse on the bedside table and think about the jam."

A bit insulted I retort:

 "Just tell Charlie what we are wearing, so he doesn't look like he's showing up to the wrong show. 3 more stops, 2 Beers plus a bed. Going to have to go with that one."

 Leaning my head against the glass and staring into the abyss of that ever moving metal roof, I think:

 Interesting how the idea of currency breaks us down to the basics like a good drummer. Somehow, amidst the uncertainty, the rations, the embargo, when I'm up on that stage, I just blow reed and it all goes away, or rather it's so close to me, I just don't notice it all anymore, and just accept it as part of myself. In that moment, I am the true elephant in the room, which I have been struggling to imagine.

 As such, I imagine myself in that crowded room, right in front of me, like a fog horn through the fog, putting a boat to those ripples, a face to those feelings, a solo to that percussion. As if I was painting a place for myself ...

 "hey man can you cut it out?" Freddie said,

 "What now man?" I retort.

 "You are muttering under your breath again."

 "Why can't one be left to his own damn renditions of his own damn poetry?" I say.  

 Street art gets away with letting it's ideas spill on to the street, I think.

 "and honestly that's the problem, Freddie my man, you keep your creativity in a box like a collection of marbles, waiting for someone else to play with, instead of just spilling that box a little, and seein who it trips up. Follow me?"

 "Can you cut out the autobiographical sap and help me tune?!"

  Freddie answers with a smile.

  And in those cutting routes of the subway,

  I close my eyes to dream of those long drawn out standards. Stardust, channeling Webster now, through my horn, as his spirit fills the room and my vocal chords. Almost as if Mr Webster was present but out of sight, not unlike the voracious stars of the night.

  I open my eyes, and the room is full of cheer. I open them again and it is as empty as the beer glasses. The dream has left as I lay down my head to sleep and see no stars through the wooden roof. As the day breaks, I hear the taxis on the street and relish these unspoken moments between waking and walking, as I walk up the block towards a new reality, a new set of buildings, and weary eyes as a sunset full of roses closes behind mine. There I am, on stage again, this time a free meal and 3 beers. I got no where to go tonight, and those eyes find me at the bar again, like that Hopper painting coming alive in the empty streets, the red looks at me with an air of wonder as I sink into this inevitable adventure. Waking up 7 blocks two flights under roof top, as I climb to see the break of day. It's important to know the day still breaks , before it breaks you. And so, I'm off again looking for a stage, as I reverse these stages of life.

For me,

jazz was always

that haughty-taught three blocks over,

that toss up between the court ballers,

that which is about to be summed up, but still being explained.

Walking down another mysterious street of hidden chandeliers, the bar at the corner, with the old victorian street lamp sticking out like a beacon, in these foggy times. And as I pass, the shaking head of the bar man, almost shakes in approval if not doubt that better times are on the horizon.

 "Hey man you gonna help me carry this base down the stairs or you just gonna keep day dreaming all night?." I hear Freddie say as the words drift into the fog.

 I started to think that maybe what we mean by horizon, is two more blocks. So I turn a couple more times, like I'm doing the Charleston , and the city's streets are suddenly the dance floor.

Synchronized, syncopated, and frustrated.

The anxiety of being under siege. I hear a knocking, maybe it's just my foot on the ground or old ghostly memories; however, the more I walk, the more the rhythm is unmistakable. I knew that's where they would all be, the crowd. In that one second, I considered these past days, all melting into each other , and how they all converge into this one moment, this one note, between Charlie's drum solo and Freddie's swingin base, I blow into the waves of applause like a boat in peace time at dawn, looking to make itself heard by those people out there. When I look to my left and right, out of my dreams, I see Charlie and Freddie there right with me.

I think to myself: the boat always has to have a crew if you are gonna just roll through the harbor to fight for peace like that. And as that thought hits my brain, like a bolt out of the blue, the drum rolls me up in a blanket and I turn out the light.