But I, being poor, have only my dreams

I wrote something beautiful, and it was somehow erased. So I will write whatever comes out.

I heard the most wonderful thing last night, settled in a couch, hands wrapped around steamed ceramic, listening to musicians pour their all and everything into jazz. A blind boy came at sat next to me, he touched my foot and laughed at me. His name was Dave, and he has perfect pitch . . . he listens to jazz because he knows it sounds right, but he cannot figure out mathematically why. And he will never know what it means that his eyes are a lovely mixture of blues and gold, and that his thumbs beat passionately on a dark green couch, inches away from me. And he will never know the gleam of a saxaphone in candlelight, but he will know jazz like I couldn't fathom.
What strength it must take, to be helpless.
I love the way a bass players fingers pluck and stroke, hammer and hold, pull and still--I love the nodding head of the pianist, lip bit, hands pulsing, pounding . . . the beat that breaks out of a drummers whole body, bending and folding ever so slightly, to the beat, the beat thebeat

I love that it doesn't make sense, but oh, it does . . . jazz doesn't resolve, it is crazy and lopsided, and lovely and full, somehow, piling up to pull and pluck and bang the heart strings like they were the cool bronze of a guitar.
Perhaps it is because we are the mishaped beauty of this place, that just doesn't make sense

Perhaps it is like love and faith and life, and jazz lets you believe in it all

Perhaps it is because I am more blind than I care to admit