The piano under my hands ceases to be a thing, a machine; it becomes my voice, my heart, my words.
I am introduced, and approach the stage to hearty applause; awaiting me there is my home. The nine-foot Steinway. To my right are many, many people.
Some have traveled hundreds of miles to see me. They've reserved hotel rooms to stay the night as they will not be up to driving home after I play. I will exhilarate and exhaust them.
One man will tell me he hasn't painted for years, but now, after hearing and feeling and breathing my gift, he will paint tonight. He rushes away in anticipation. I must never egoize or cheapen this gift I have.
An eighty-year-old woman named Margaret tells me that I am beautiful, special, and blessed by god. I can't say much of anything about that.
Tobacco and alcohol don't mix with my art. When I play for people who are lost in the fog of substances, I start fights. People become angry with me. I hurt them when I play (sometimes I play so quiet and fast, with the soft pedal smashed to the floor; the overtones ring like bells and the clarity, the space between the notes, is like the distance between electrons, perfect particle-wave intervals.
The star-stuff is everywhere.
This is really why I can't play clubs anymore, this and my profound allergic reaction to cigarette smoke, my equally extreme allergy to social madness, and my physiological aversion to emotional deadness).
The piano under my hands ceases to be a thing, a machine; it becomes my voice, my heart, my words. Unlike the words I write here, these words are mine yet not mine.
They are like the words of a prophet, a seer, a wise-woman, and they fall from me like water over stones.
I don't egoize. I have reached a state of grace, of Samwhandi, of total immersion in the eternal now.
It's like flying in a dream, and watching the landscape unfold below. The only way I can fall is to think of the music happening, to TRY to make something happen. Then I will fall, have fallen many times, will fall many times again.
I am learning not to ask too many questions about my gift while it is going on. I think I have asked too many questions about too many things that were already beyond question.
When we question ourselves we break the trance of the TRUE reality, the one that goes on when we sleep, when we make love, when we simply DO anything at all without TRYING.
Reality is all 'up here' (in the head, the heart, the belly) anyway. It's not 'out there'. It's not 'I'm in here and the world is out there, and it's me against it.'
It SEEMS like we are inside something (ourselves) and the world is OUTSIDE of our selves. And this is very binary and divisive and alienating. So we look to another person and ask 'am I real?'... and if that person says no, we're in trouble with our selves (and the other person!). We didn't measure up.
So we need to clear away the cultural cobwebs and see that we are experiencing life in a totality where lines are only drawn in the imagination (lines between me/you, us/them) and that true reality is perception.
Incorrect perception results in distorted reality.
Thoughts DO become real. All of reality is, after all, our thoughts. It's either an awful downpour or it's Gene Kelley, singin' in the rain! Fear and self-doubt become real, and other spirits (being full of fear and self-doubt anyway in this dominator culture) react accordingly. We are actually exposing our pain by trying to hide it and avoid it.
It seems to us as if we are separate; the truth is, all of reality is a circular continuum, a moment that lasts forever, and the way through it is to yeild to that moment, to submit, to LET GO of this abysmal idea that we are INSIDE and the world is OUTSIDE.
We are the world and it is us, and the moment is the past, present, and future all together.
A gift will teach this to you if you listen.
So one giant truth that I glean from my gift is this:
We are who and what and how we believe ourselves to be.
You and I will never know our own beauty, strength, courage, and perfection until we understand, absorb, and INITIATE this single thought.
It grows inside of you as you remember that you think up and dream up and create your own reality, your own world, and that the whole world responds to this reality because it is your world you have made, and that the more willfully you believe in it, the 'realer' it becomes.
If it sounds like magic, it is.
But then, so is life. -JW 02