I was looking for an appropriate metaphor with which to couch today's nonsensical nebula of neuro-electronic nanoglyphs, when all of a sudden - as in right this very moment -here it mystically appears before us all... the very "real" metaphor of global connectivity, Ladies and Gentlemen, sisbrahthren of all ages: Presenting the World Wide Web. The term already sounds archaic, but web is metaphorically more fitting than say, superhighway. Net "works" also, but for present purposes I'll stick with web metaphor, one that I'll shape in such a manner that any and every node can be considered the "center" from which we van navigate in any direction we please. "Surfing the waves of connectivity" that are simultaneously an infinite, interacting liquid sea of micro-currents which we collapse for practical navigable purposes into strands in the web that span the space and shape the relationship between the node/entities that represent ourselves, our ideas and our creations.
I don't know if it's pc these days to pick your nodes in public, but I've always lacked social skills, and if I don't pick a node my rant will become even more pointless, assuming that's mathematically possible.
The node I pick is ...
Mingus' tribute to the Prez, Lester Young. the tune's been covered by a diverse group of musicians, From Jeff Beck and John McLaughlin to Joni Mitchell and Rahsaan Roland Kirk, the latter two each adding their own poignant and poetic lyrics to the already amazing and expressive tune.
As for Lester Young, I won't even try to capture his bigness with my own limited command of words.
I'll insteead quote Mr. Kirk, who was himself a saxophonist, greatly inspired by the prez, and you mights say, a fellow initiate of the mystical school of jazz that recognized the possibility that what was being transmitted through their instruments was far more than the "notes" which fell on the ears alone.
"He put all of his soul
into a tenor saxophone
He had his way of talking,
'twas a language all hisown
Life's story - Love and Glory
If you listen
While he plays it for you
and DIG IT
Can't you dig it?
Lester young is playing
what he's FEELING
Dealing and dancing us home."
If that doesn't shed a pinprick of light on Lester, look at the expression on Billie Holiday's face in the next clip:
Entrancing, ain't it?
(And, coincidently, there's Gerry "MullAGAIN.")
I humbly submit that the Power to Love is one of supplemental metaphorical transmissions encoded and contained within the mystical multiple messages of the music.
listen. and listen. and dig it.
The power to love is the ubiquitous warm breeze at our backs that aids us as we navigate from node to node and you can hear it sing wherever you travel even after you've parked your board.
Lester blew with a purpose that redefined the trade winds, which moved mingus who in turn redirected and amplified and iterated within the voices of Jeff Beck (who once called himself a Yardbird in honor of the original Birdman Charlie Parker who was also directly and profoundly influenced by the sideways-playin' saxophonist in the pork-pie hat) and so we weave our tangled webzizzizz...) and Mahavishnu Johnny and and neither last nor least Jaco and Joni... once more, if it is your pleasure, listen. and. listen. and dig it.
all those who love the youtube embed function say "eye"
the more you look the more wesurf and feel the tingly sea and air the more connections become apparent and the paradox is
as awreness grows, the universe shrinks, it's tighter and tinier and we're all a little closer together and related/connecteed in more ways than kevin bacon's films even begin to ilustrate and the bottom line is that the only thing between you and i is space and space is nothingness so i am right here right now in your very face kissing and licking and nibbling playfully and ii invite you to do the same and in the unlikely event that you bite my somewhat toxic and potentially lethal my head off, spit it out immediately, gargle profusely with White Lightning, and expunge and ignite the resulting liquid like a fire-breathing dragon. Place the head in a styrofoam cooler, pack it with ice, and mail it post-haste to Stacy Alexander Studios and address it "c/o Wild Man Fisher."
The universe is a conspiracy, and we're all in on it. The way we interpret the conspiracy is all up to the shape we carve in the gleamingsurface of the sea as we surf from node to node, connecting the dots that specle the web of existence.