here's another piece from my final project:
when you really hit yr stride and there's nothing else to say
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There’s nothing better than letting it all go, than letting it all hang free and getting it all out. I don’t know what it is, but I know when it’s there. It bubbles right up to the surface of my skin; all over my body, I can feel it, waiting to explode from my pores in some blinding wild brilliant flash. It’s not something sexual like some young cats might make it, it’s got nothing to do with fucking or even really anything to do with satisfaction. Sure there’s nothing wrong with being satisfied, but that’s not what it’s about, really; it’s about tension and testing strength and shouting as loud as you goddamn can when the blood’s really flowing. When those boys hit just the right notes and fall into a real classic Coltrane jam, it hits me like christ on his motherfucking cross it’s so gorgeous and pure and bubbling and I let out a yelp. A kid listening to the music and observing my spectacle shouts back, “You go my man! Let it out!” and I belt out another one. He gets it, he gets it, he gets it like so few do. I don’t come out here to fuck with idiot tourists. I’m here to get in touch with it, with soul, with the higher power with whatever name you want to assign it. But I don’t think it has a name or wants a name, I think it’s right in the deep bell of that tenor sax, under that kickdrum pedal, in the soles of my busted old tennis shoes as I spin around while my brother on the sax hits the peak of a song’s last solo. I think when you really hit yr stride and there’s nothing else to say that’s when you’ve got god on yr side, whether you believe in it or not. By the time they’re done playing that tune and I need to sit and rest my bones and lose a layer of sweaters I’m feeling it, I have hit my stride. I could stop but I won’t, that wouldn’t feel quite right, I’m just not ready to. I’ll keep going ‘til there’s nothing left and then I’ll know for sure I did it right.
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