Posted on: April 26, 2008
I must keep my mind alive. This is the only reason I’m thinking in English right now. Mamma mia, it’s so hard! My fingers are numb, I really can’t feel anything. It’s dark. Dark deep blue. I don’t know what kind of pitch is going to be the next one. I don’t even know which way to take it.
Randy is pulling ahead as if we were Rolling a Rock in Summertime. He jumps quickly from one move to the next one. Why did I accept this crazy gig? No money, no fun, lot of cold and my feet are freezing. I’ve been standing on the same leg for too long now. Dio santo… I should keep up the rhythm.
I must keep going on ‘til Randy is done.
Walking! Keep walking! I imagine him screaming.
No more wind: is it because Randy is not blowing anymore into his sax? Shut the mind, It’s my turn. Randy is done. He found a nice spot where to hide from freezing.
Shadows of Pretas look down at us as if we are annoying flies.
Ok, a small spot of light right in front
and all over me
the deepest blue of the night.
Sing, sing, sing something…
Rolling back and forth
Pleasing the waves
Swingin’ the time
In a deep blue fluid
Slow passion bullets
Fly through the deep mist
Keep sense on
All around me, Deep Blue, dark, dense, misty Blue. My fingers are numb, my feet are numb, my face is numb, my brain is becoming whatever I’ll never know.
What am I doing at 2am with my double bass in a freezing Manhattan Avenue? I’m playing the cat with Randy, but that’s not the point. There are so many warm venues in town where to jam. I don’t even remember what exactly Randy told me. He wanted to play his sax in front of the Chinese Consulate because someone has been killed in Tibet. A monk, he said, a nun too. I guess it’s a good enough reason.
Randy blows the wind like a crazy. That’s why I’m here. He says in Tibet there’s a winged horse called Lung-ta. He’s Randy’s god. He brings prayers to the sky. I’m climbing up my double bass, pitch after pitch. I’ll climb ‘til no more passion bullets are left. That’s where Randy should be then, that’s where we’ll meet. When I’ll be done I’ll finally see why music is a mountain. Randy calls it Meru Mountain. From the top you can watch the whole universe below. Nothing is left above you, not even the sky, ‘cause you’ll be the sky, he said.
I don’t know what does it means, but it sounds good and everything about sound is a matter of life and death.
Randy is a great guy. I’m playing my chops and nothing more, ‘cause anything more is left in icy me.
Soon I’ll be on top of the wall, Giant Steps below me, holding a cup of extra hot coffee Randy’s preparing.
Free Tibet in a Free China in a Free World in a Free Jazz free climbing in a Free Mind.
No freak out.
Now I’m done.