Oftentimes it’s enough to merely change your seating; move from one end of the room to the other; get a drink of water in the kitchen. Suddenly you’re brimming with ideas where you were once stuck on a sentence or a word or not even that – a letter, perhaps, or just the blank page itself, so frightening since the only fear it highlights is your own fear of failure, of not delivering what you think you can and should be able to. Of not writing a great novel, or just a worthwhile poem. You need to make a change every now and then, let your body know that it’s alive, let your mind wander with your legs. You were stuck, but now you’re not. Now you’re moving. You’re a moving object – and it’s always easier to see inside yourself, see your subject, if you acknowledge yourself as an object as well. I’m not going to go into some long discussion of the difference between subjects and objects here, as if I’m Fernando Pessoa, but I will say this: all subjects are objects at all times other subjects are present, and they should strive to also being objects when they’re alone. There’s such an insight to fleeing from your own mind now and again. Dance. Run. Do something. This is as much a message to myself as to anyone reading it. I just ordered the sweatiest record I’ve ever heard, Stan Getz’s Captain Marvel. I’m so looking forward to getting it in a week’s time. That will put me in my dancing spirits day and night, it already does, but there’s something more to putting it on your record player and just saying “hell” and turning the volume up and prompt the neighbours to dance as well. I have so much respect for the jazz musicians of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. Honestly, has their ever been musicians more skilled than the jazz musicians of that era? I’m sweating just listening to Tony Williams work on this record. The stamina for these guys to go through a concert playing those tunes. Wow. Just wow. When we finally hit a slow tune, Lush Life, on the record, it seems as much for the listener as for the musicians. It’s hard work keeping up with them, staying on your feet, moving, dancing, jumping, stomping, falling in trance, and out again, and in again, gasping for breath, asking them to give you a break… in a little while, just, just a bit more. A bit more latin madness before the show is over, before you can safely find your chair, or just lie on the floor, not knowing if you’re drowning or dehydrating, possibly both. There’s nothing like that frantic feeling, when all is just rhythm, and rhythms that move too fast for your normal life, shattering it, letting you transcend the border between our dimensions, finding that coveted other side, where all is life and all is love and all is letting go and all is all at the same time, and you’re in the middle of it, you’re the centerpiece in life’s great mystery which no longer seems so daunting, ’cause it’s suddenly been boiled down to “it,” and who has “it” and where to find “it” and how to grasp, how to hold on to “it” when you’re finally there – and no one is asking what “it” is, because everybody involved knows what “it” is and knows that that is the only thing that counts. Everything else is just byproducts, epiphenomena to “it”. And that is the only thing I can say, with a true voice, to be submitting myself to, “it”. If I am to call myself a religious person, it is on the basis of this existence, that there is a creative energy that moves beyond any one individual, that is only created in unison with others, and with the sound, with the air of the world. An energy that lets itself be breathed in, be obtained – but only until you exhale. No one can claim ownership of “it,” just as the sound belongs to whoever hears it as soon as it leaves the instrument. Everything that matters can be found in those moments. Go look.