There is nothing that I’m able to say. That’s what’s sad.
Left unheard. Stay unsaid.
What’s the point?
Walking aimlessly down Broadway,
down past church and funeral pyre,
by Jeff Glovsky
My train each day is a filthy ride.
Harried passengers, captively feigning aplomb, have no choice… The alternative is meltdown.
In the tunnel, wind rumbles, belches, swirls. At the end, finally, light.
My train arrives.
A clock face smiles genially as it marches into sunset.
Racing backwards down the slope of Time, the face stops glowing, cracks appear; it winds itself less regularly… Forgets to sound reminders now and then… Alarming.
Increasingly, out of sync.
They still engage.
To whatever extent it matters (and it matters to me, a bit sadly, a lot), they’ll say things and strike up bemused conversations, amusingly shifting to repartee… or small gauntlets they feel emboldened to throw down!
“Nice touch, with the ice cream cone,” one yells. “It makes you look innocent!”
This beautiful stranger! As I walk down the street on a hot summer day with Moosetracks dripping down my shirt…
As I’m licking my finger after flicking it up, she yells, “Nice touch, with the ice cream cone!”
And she smiles.
A bit sadly, perhaps.
In a diner, where I “dine” alone, a rap on the glass between me and the street. She is laughing like a college sweetheart, saying something I can’t quite make out…
‘Til her friend pulls her along and I’m left laughing through the glass myself. But alone, with some french fries, like uneaten meat.
Now I realize (a lot, sadly), I might end up home-bound… Or hiking my shirt up above my neck, spinning blindly and spitting, rejecting awareness…
Uncogent, and swearing and lashing far out…
Or in thirty years, who knows? I may have slithered from this mortal coil… pooled around my ankles, swelled edemic or lopped off from underuse, or Type 2 diabetes…
Beautiful strangers engaging me now, do so piteously!
As my french fries cool and Moosetracks drips, and I become less and less engaged…
Less bemused and amusing, a bit sadder (sadly).
And vaguely, enraged.
In NEW YORK, before loud hordes pollute each day, and in MUNICH, before tourists take dumps on the canvas — and in any place I find myself with a café or diner open early enough — I avail myself of public solitude.
Some words on ‘mornings’… by Jeff Glovsky
* * *
Not to be confused with
a short Story by Jglo
You can have tone and technique and a lot of other things but without originality, you ain’t really nowhere.
Ornette was “out”. He was different. He ‘couldn’t play’, yet “rewrote the language of jazz” (no small feat in a musical landscape of perpetual innovation (once), and the ethereal dissipation of improvised note bursts nightly, on a ‘moment’s notice’).
* * *
I myself am no musician. I don’t capably play any instruments … and I’m no authority. But I do know well and appreciate jazz: its humor, its sense of chaos, its combustible spontaneity … and above all, its take it or leave it, ‘is what it is’ ethos, too often exploited because, Hey! It’s Jazz!
Ornette Coleman 1930 - 2015
Writing on Blogspot
(and vice versa!)
If you’ve searched me by name, Jeff Glovsky, chances are you’ve wound up here. Welcome.
In learning the craft of writing, and of becoming (more or less) myself, I seem to have tuned into a few of the biggies … certain manna, and ticks and inflections of theirs, picked up by my young and thirsty antennae, all bursting with needing to take it all in.
… flying in the face of his own misguided logic that in some small way, an exit by overdose might be a good thing — its transmitted “message” perhaps being taken to heart, as opposed to being ignored or simply not received at all by other nodding junkies suddenly waking up, saying, “You know what? Philip Seymour Hoffman died. Let me quit.” —
Sadly, it’s unlikely that this became the case anywhere. Philip Seymour Hoffman just died.
Once I was sitting outside a jazz club where I used to mix sound. It was a beautiful spring night, and I stepped out of what was, at that time, the stereotypical smoke-filled room to gulp in some fresh air. It was during a bass solo … These always tended to go on forever anyway, so I figured I had a few minutes, at least, before the singer would come in again and start gesticulating (wildly) toward her ear, suggesting (none too subtly) that she wasn’t able to hear herself …
Elliot Rodger was a sick, pained soul. Stereotypically “tortured”, almost “poetic”, in his musings. His dark manifesto, had it been written, say, a century and a half ago … penned anonymously, and/or “discovered” … who knows? Might have become a literary classic, in the Dostoevsky or Knut Hamsun vein.
As a writer, I myself am tortured: panged with jealousy, twisted, unnerved, by the guy’s naive, sadly wasted talent!
When my dad turned 50 years old, he did a little ‘river dance‘ on his birthday cake. Sadly frustrated with life and years behind him to that point, and whatever present hassles he felt his family, (empty) wallet and failing business had been giving him, in a single swooping motion, he swatted his 50th birthday cake off the kitchen counter, and leapt upon it like Nureyev.
Last May, in the wake of the Donald Sterling nonsense, I commented — rather vehemently — about the old fella’s ‘mistreatment’ at the hands of certain “hating and seething” “thought police” … “angry, directionless ministers beseeching … already converted choirs” that Sterling was worse than just a crusty curmudgeon, left up to his neck in societal sea change.
I empathized with Donald Sterling …