In a strange way, I feel I am flying to NYC to confront my own mortality…How selfish my thoughts are in bargaining with grief and loss. It is said that death is a selfish process for the dying. It seems a selfish process for the grieveing as well. Kubler-Ross model keep flashing, disguised as affect, as comfort, as caring, when really, am I simply reacting to my own notions of mortality?
In times of confusion, I’ve found early(If you can call: The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady (1963) early… Hey! fucking buy it, if you like it you cheap-ass! You’ll just spend the money instead on white trash meth anyway…) Charles Mingus oddly comforting…the woodiness of the drums, the squanking bursts of brass, the almost goofy passages…I feel mocked, but by something stronger than I feel: Like a voice that inisists it’s not so bad…You’re over thinking again…The piano interrupts with a disjointed melancholy…The flute chimes in but in irony…then the brass busts back in, the drums insists something like a rhythm…Guitar is walking Spanish, then the xylophone…I’m soon not feeling anything, a good numb…All ears, no brain.
Miles (the so-called electric period) gives me the strength to meet my own selfishness as well. When I was a kid, I was confused or intimidated by improv. music…It offered no order (which I needed), no structure per se (which I craved), I couldn’t see the end, the logic, crests and falls, minding it’s own buisness…I can see why I took to more ordered, rational, predictable, music like rock. I guess I wasn’t ready for the uncertainty…