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Tuesday, Feb. 25, 2003 / 11:02 a.m. ~Acid Jazz in the Morning in the Cube~ Listening to �Stolen Moments � Red Hot + Cool�, one of the best albums ever recorded. A mixture of hip hop and jazz, one might label it �acid jazz�, different artists coming together for the grand cause of AIDS awareness. Worthy and monumental album. The music�s loud, the phone is turned up to compensate. If eyes could close sleep would come. Miles Davis is here too, for later. Slept to him last night, him and Julian Adderly, John Coltrane Wyn Kelly, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers, James Cobb, thinking sleep would never come, waking to see light on stereo, hum of silence. Lying in bed falling into the saxophone, then the trumpet, then the bass, the drums, falling into them, instruments of pleasure, yet traveling on a journey through the past, not even meaning or wanting to. Just images, like sifting. That was The Roots, and the healing power of music. I dreamed I was with Moby, or he was with me. He was in my space, a large open room with cozy seating areas scattered throughout, large overstuffed chairs upholstered in deep hues, rich fabrics, chairs arranged in small groups, some in front of a fireplace. He was going to leave, but I asked him to stay, he motioned for me to rest my head in his lap. Suddenly, a friend of his was with us, a woman, and I was offering her whatever I had, some fruit juice, grape or, white grape, which in reality I currently do have in my fridge. She wanted ice so I had to find some in the freezer, but I never use ice, so none was made, but then there was some, crushed, and it spilled all over the floor, but I wasn�t in my abode at all, I was at my brother�s house. It was a large area of rooms, with no load baring walls except on the perimeter. I was in the kitchen struggling with the ice situation, scooping it up from the floor, putting it in the sink, finding some clean enough to put in a glass for her, the friend, and I was wishing she had never shown up. It was Mo and me, just us two, and it was cozy and good. The ice surrounded tiny custard fruit tarts, and I decided to thaw them, to re-heat them, but Moby doesn�t eat eggs, so no custard for him. But then, as dreams wind and spin and make little sense later, not even at the time, suddenly (because that�s the speed in dreams, suddenly) bacon was surrounding the tartlets. Bacon wrapped custard fruit tarts. Again, suddenly I was frying up bacon, but it was precooked, I was re-heating it. This was all wrong, Mo is a vegan, he�d never eat the bacon, would he be discouraged that I was heating it? What was I doing? Yet I couldn�t seem to stop. It was bacon, bacon, bacon. Eventually he came in and prepared a plate for the friend, strip after strip, and at first I thought it was for me, but it was for her. And then my brother woke up, came in sleepy-eyed, grabbed his own plate of bacon. But I was still cleaning up the floor, picking up stray crushed ice, stray ice shrouded custard fruit tarts, and bacon. My bacon had cat hair on it, from the floor. I woke up and tried to get back to the dream, almost succeeding, getting to the beginning portion, the large room, like the interior of a log cabin, cozy seating arrangements all over, me asking Mo to stay, wondering what to call him, do I call him �Mo�? �Moby�? �Richard�? And him motioning for me to rest my head in his lap. Next is Joshua Redman, and jazz is soothing. The scent of microwaved popcorn fills the air. My eyes can barely see. If I had to communicate with a live person, face to face, I�m not sure I could. I�ll go as long as I can without. Soon is a song called �This Is Madness�, and though it�s about AIDS and suffering and disease, and in a moment I�ll pay attention to the lyrics, it pops in my head when I�m pissed, or involved in one pig fuck or another, just like Marley�s �Oh what a rat race�� used to when I got stuck in rush hour traffic in the days when I commuted into Midtown. Some people need to learn to entertain themselves. It�s pitiable they can�t. Oh wow, yes, this song, �This Is Madness�, spoken word, intense, intense, graphic, horrific, madness indeed. Use condoms, people, use condoms. Cost of the War in Iraq
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