Jazzin’ Around

Scott ____

February 2010

A muse of mine, in support of my music-impression poetry, graciously provided me with a recording of various jazz pieces.  She hadn’t specified the artists or titles–she’d simply labeled the compact disc, See Where This Goes.  This is what the music evoked–where it went.

Montez splurges on a spring bouquet for Adele.  The change he tosses into a bucket for the Pensacola High Basketball Team.  Adele he met at Subway on Mobile Highway.  She painted the boutique next door, and he was awed as she raised her rear delicately.

Adele writes love poems, though all set during wartimes before her birth.  She submits these to literary journals in the Writer’s Market.  All are rejected as trite–Adele knows nothing of war.

Montez takes the plaid bouquet to Adele’s shop, and leaves them with the manager–who smiles on him, encourages him.  Yet Adele hides in the storage room.

Adele speaks no Spanish, her major was French.  Still, she’s never met a man who could afford to take her to Paris.  Surely Montez couldn’t, but what does she know of him–since she’s never given him an hour of her time?

I meet Montez at the Hilltop Lounge.  And yes, hablo un poco espanol, though not nearly enough–so we converse in English.  Drunken on seven Guinnesses, I tell him of my experiences with Adeles–for there are far too many of them.

Montez stays at the Burgess Motel–the woman who drove him to the Hilltop took off without him.  I drive him home, and somehow end up discussing my disbelief in the Trinity–to his shock.  He wouldn’t expect me to be Catholic, but not to be Christian at all?  He’s never met anyone like me.

Montez makes it clear he’s from Texas, not Mexico–and I assure him it wouldn’t matter if he were, even illegally.  How could I blame any Mexican for seeking the Mythical America, since I would do the same?

I tell him of my situation with an Adele named Renee, a hostess at Logan’s Roadhouse–how she’s never given me an hour either.

I tell him of Cheryl, who, lying on the beach, said, “You’re blocking my sun,” every time I moved to kiss her.  Cheryl was anal even when I accidentally touched hers during sex.  “Stop that, don’t do that, that’s not sexy, that’s not sexy!” she’d go on hysterically.  Cheryl had serious acne scars.  I think of that every time I remember her dropping me–which she did simply because I told her of my obsessive-compulsive disorder.  There are alot of Cheryls too.

Like Adele, I also write poetry–yet more of war within love, those gender battles that occur even among the best of relationships.  Maybe I’ll write of Sarah Palin, and my attraction to her body and her power.  It’s like the girls in Leg Show, to whom I assign any names I want for them, since their spread-names are pseudonyms anyway.  Slowly I sleepwalk in my dreams, and see Africa beads hanging over my door, or dragons spinning disco balls.  Is there anything of which I cannot conceive?  God, maybe–but no one can do that anyway.  God made me, God made writing.  Yet I know not what God is, but what God is not.  Joe smokes weed every other day–does nothing for me, alcohol is my drug.  And I’ve never had a bad trip on it, as I do on caffeine–because alcohol lowers my high blood pressure.  Still, without caffeine I wouldn’t be able to write this–though I might trash it.  Everything is a draft anyway.  I certainly can’t blame it on this music however–the musicians of which are far more skilled than I.

Lapsang souchong?  It’s smoked tea.  Really.  In China and Taiwan the tea leaves are smoked on pine slats, fire on the ground beneath.  Lapsang souchong is the only tea in my world–stronger than coffee perhaps.  Lack of inspiration robs the poet of objectivity.  How strange that poetry is best with the least subjectivity–if you’re self-absorbed, put the pad and pencil down.  Snow a nuisance?  It’s snowing in D.C. all weekend.  Too much of a great thing?  Perhaps–since I’ve never been anywhere it snowed too much.

June 2010

To my delight, my muse provided me with a second recording, once again of various jazz pieces.  She’d only labeled this disc with a question mark.  And this is my answer.

Adele swirls in concentric squares in a world of French.  She takes primitive delight in flurries, furry and alive.  The Nubian’s voice calls her attention to the desires of Montez.  And she reluctantly beholds him in bed.  After all, he is beautiful–in his dark, Mexicano manner.  Adele floats in a coffee daze between this universe and the next.  Were it not for Montez’s persistence, she probably would have accepted his very first approach.

Montez asks himself what role belongs to Scott–why he met the self-proclaimed poet at the Hilltop Lounge, in the first place.  Could it be, he ponders, that Scott is the link between me and Adele–that my life, as well as Adele’s, is a creation of this bizarre poet?  No–I remember my own experience, my Mexican parents in Texas.  Still, Scott knows all about Adele–as if he could project himself into the mind of a woman.

Adele decides, subconciously, that she’ll call Montez in the morning.  She remembers a harpist she saw on TV, and realizes she’d like to play a harp.

After all, Scott wants to ride a horse–which he hasn’t done since long before Adele was born.

Montez hears of Generation X, and looks up the Baby Boom.  He just made it, as Scott just made Generation X.  He laughs softly–Adele is of Generation Y, which could easily be the word, why, or why not!  Scott offered to intervene, Montez recalls, to point Adele toward me.  But Scott’s not even Christian, thus might be untrustworthy–Scott would probably keep Adele to himself!

Of course I would, the poet interjects, if Adele were real!

Adele forgets her life, for a moment–maybe she is only a character in Scott’s poetry, as much as Montez.  “That bastard!” She declares, “How do I know he’s not making me reconsider Montez?  Is Scott God then?” she shouts–so loudly that her mother checks her room, asks if she’s alright.  “Yes, it’s just a dream, Mom,” Adele lies.  And as her mother closes the door, Adele realizes she’s never met Scott–that she only knows his name, yet doesn’t even know how she knows.  “The poet must whisper it to my soul–perhaps he is God!”

“Of course I’m not!” whispers Scott, more loudly than his name, “God is the one that created me!”

I guess I’d better leave Adele and Montez alone for a while, before they begin praying to me–that’d be downright embarrassing!  But how can I bring them together, if I do that?  Or do characters continue living, even loving, once the poet abandons them?  Heavy question–almost too heavy.  So it’s done–I let them go.

It’s 3:35 a.m. anyway–and I have an appointment with Dr. Cross tomorrow (technically today).  My clothes are dry by now, I’m sure.  And that rat, or something bigger, is jazzin’ around in my attic again–though I can do nothing about it, but make sure it doesn’t get into my living space.  Still, I wonder–how do I know this isn’t a reversal, that I’m not simply a character in one of Adele’s ever-rejected wartime-love poems?  No–I am a creation of the Creator (what Adele would call God).  Thus the Creator is the Poet that gives me life.  Sometimes I feel that the Creator is all there is–that everyone and everything is simply an extension of the Creator.  This is what coffee does–keeps me awake all night, wondering such things that most people would consider too deep, even insane.  But I’m not most people.

What is that street-level sound?  Is it the warmonger between what is and what is not?  The woman sings of sex with her–something I’ve been denied since before Hurricane Ivan hit.

And that was the last song on the CD.  So adieu, Adele–adios, Montez.  This character, Scott, must live his story.

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