Jazz

Jazz is an amorphous, shape-shifting brown fog that seeps into the air of a room. In its purest form, it isn't even music--but it is a sound, a sound that floats in the air and sits heavy on your chest, a sound like rain, or a child's laughter, or something else equally basic and simple in this existence. Jazz isn't a genre, it's an idea, a concept. It's about freedom from the structure of life. Jazz exists in direct contradiction to nature, to the universe, to humanity. It's about purposefully existing without purpose. Jazz exists within the absence of God, it fills the little holes of life that make the difference between an infinitely-sided polygon and a perfect circle, the holes where God lives. Jazz doesn't really exist except in our own minds. It is like raindrops falling on a window, streaking like comets to make a picture in our eyes that isn't really there. Jazz is rain and the music is the picture, a thing both elemental and mental, a beautiful thing only man could have invented. Jazz is about turning something into nothing without losing anything. One digs jazz like one digs through soppy, wet dirt. It's heavy and just sits there, and won't move unless you take out a shovel. That is why jazz as an idea will always be eternal, even if the genre is marginalized into obscurity, left to wither in empty subway stations and dark back alleys.