Pool_1

"You know my mother? How do you know her?" "EVERYBODY in the Jazz circuit knows your mother! What's wrong with you?" "But I don't think I look like... Whoa. You a jazz musician?" "Words, man. Words. I'm a writer! I'm a poet. Poets, writers, lyrics, jaaaazzzzzzz, smokes, bongoes, and turtlenecks - black ones - no matter how da heat is hottin ya. Dig?" Macaluso laughed his affirmation of that simple and compelling logic, as Jake embraced his new recruit like a mother would her newly found lost child. Marcus thought he was just getting an overly gracious friendly theatrical welcome. That was, until that shaking hug ended and he saw the makings of a tear welling in Jake's eye. "Clearly there's a lot going on that I don't know about," he shared, rather disarmed. "Jazz Man is all heart and soul. He keeps the beat," Jake nodded as he thumped the books like drums. "There is a rhythm to the world and the universe. He keeps the beat. Negative energy has no beat, it rumbles and destroys, it seeps, it drains, it slithers and hisses, it chokes and burns but has no soul, no harmony, no intrinsic rhythm other than what it steals then devours into nothingness. Pulse. Thump thump, thump thump. It's the rhythm of fury and justice, of men on the rise to their destinies as men, it's life itself. He keeps the beat." "Well he has this ability to disconnect what his hands and feet are doing." "Noooooo! Man. That ain't it. There is no disconnection. What you hear is connection! Each part of that man is connected to another rhythm, another life, bringing them together. It is synthesis! Synthesis! Spit in the face of entropy, chaos, destruction. Synthesis. He is the common denominator of the infinity of irrationals. He is soul. He is jazz!" his brow as furrowed as anatomy would allow, Jake was trembling excitement.