The Grace of my Life
I sat and cried uncontrollably as I listened to Glenn Gould play the "Last Fugue", supposedly written by Bach on his death-bed. I could not stop.
I have been very happy lately. In a spiritual kind of way. I smile to myself. I love myself. I like what I see when I look in the mirror. I haven't lost myself. And when Gould plays, my first impulse is to wait until the end, and run to my own "CD318" and play, improvising in that formalized style of extemporaneous expression. I have gotten very good at it.
I can play, and Gould makes me WANT to play... to play until the gates of heaven open and I am swallowed by the enormity of the universe with its black holes and neutron stars and galactic collisions.
I am amazed that color and sex and religion and appearance and age are important to anyone anymore. It is as if I am liberated from those things that have hurt so many people for so long. I am free and want others to be also. Glenn Gould helped set me free. So, I guess, has Barack Obama. It's a feeling. The N word is buried. The things that were OK (they were NEVER OK) are no longer OK. I am in a new world and I love it. It makes me cry with joy.
I bought a big leather couch so that I may lie on it and listen to the recordings that I have made five minutes before. It is a ritual now. I find the art becoming me and me becoming it. It is no longer about jazz at all. No competition with others or self. It is now pure. The hardest thing for me is to have my piano keyboard exactly weighted evenly from bottom to top.
I know I don't write the way I did, or care about the things I did.
I am growing younger. I am filled with MUSIC.
"And my guitar gently weeps . . . "
I am just happy, is all!