ascension

a love supreme

So. It’s about building a poetic, a sound, a way of seeing: language. Take jazz, for instance; let us take Monk (Thelonious), Duke & Mingus, Miles, Alice, Trane, Ornette, Sonny, Dizzy & Bird, Pharoah, Sun (Ra). They are planetary forces, embodying proper codes, rituals, symbols: they do not sound alike. They are forces of nature, in perpetual motion, ever pulling forward, rescuing what came before, taking sound farther and further, erecting, imploding pyramids. In them, love becomes language:

transcends its form

[ SUNLESS / it is true that I have been around the world and only banality still interests me. But merely as a means of reaching the divine. I return to what Pasolini said: I always see things as being a bit miraculous. Ogni oggetto è miracoloso ]

I am listening to Albert Ayler perform at Greenwich Village in 1966 and it is like a New Orleans jazz funeral circa 1904 in ecstatic trance. Out of the cemetery, into the streets. The dead rise at the sight of brass glinting in the sun. The brass melts, THE TRUTH IS MARCHING IN! The truth is love is love is love.

Albert Ayler praying for Saint John Coltrane. His lungs blow and blow (thunder). The fanfare kicks, rattles, falls upon itself, weaves its threads of spinning gold. An orbit, this language. The dark faces of my people; beads of sweat shine in their foreheads, dampen their collars. The cheeks of trumpeteers blowing —skin tensed, calloused. Our opacity thrust forward, like a lightning rod: luminous. Ineffable. All I am is this:

                                           Spirits!

Rejoice.