She's ebony and ivory, brass and chrome.
She's not seen much anymore, Chordata.
At one time, not so long ago, her presence was almost visible. In the smoky, sexy jazz clubs of the 30s, 40s, 50s, you could tell she had been there. The still-smoldering cigarette bore witness to her visit, the piercing notes and lush chords emanating from horns and keys followed her and hung in the still air.
For awhile, it seemed as though she preferred the company of men with names of one syllable... powerful declarative names like Duke, Bird, Trane, Zoot, Monk, and Miles. But she would stray often, drawn irresistibly to the domains of Dizzy, Dexter, Lester, Clifford, and the others whose melodies called and called to her... and sometimes she would have to join in, her plaintive wail joining theirs, and people knew they were hearing magic but didn't really know.
Her heart was broken by these men she adored when so many of them rejected her for another, a goddess whose devotion was all-consuming, fleeting, and deadly. She came in many forms, in powder, in liquid, in plants... they sniffed her and smoked her and injected her into their veins... could never get enough of her. They put down their horns, closed their pianos, shut their ears to Chordata's pleas and chased their new love until she caught and killed them.
It's harder and harder to find Chordata now. She doesn't understand these new jazzmen, who mutilate their horns instead of caressing them, who make the instrument scream and shriek in horror instead of singing out its rapture at their touch. Men who disdain melodies, push them away, ignore chords and progressions and harmony. She can't sing with them, they reject her even more cruelly than the others did.
She's not seen much anymore, Chordata.
But once in awhile, you will feel her there. You will hear her siren's song rising into the air and passionately coupling with the notes and chords and melodies that have poured out from someone's heart and horn.
And you will know you have heard magic, only you won't really know.
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This entry by Jennifer McLarin: copyright reserved.