Harris, Hancock, Shorter and School's On

Overslept a bit but heard school kids joyful sounds outside. Got the 'ole brain going with lots of keyboard and saxophone iconoclastic sounds. It's a total trip, the keyboard magic of Gene Harris and the Three Sounds. And I'm fine I hope you are. The ivories of Herbie Hancock elicit a marvelous strong feeling in one's brain. It is total fulfillment. Sort of a new move on past the rather slow nihilism of J.P Sartre. I have been thinking about the diverse fabric of our lives. Why is it in Georgia that for many years the rural segments of the state have to feel animosity toward the urban men and women and of course those city people have to look down on the country folks. How inane. Why can't some people enjoy Caldwell, Fitzgerald, Spinoza or even Elgar or Stan Getz no matter where they are. I look in the eyes of my granddaughters and I feel so full of life's inner meanings. It is so delightfully refreshing to proceed on down the line from the dessicated mind trip of wretched quasi-intellectualism. I try to know in my soul the joy of not getting caught up on the harsh, virulent odors of life's hurtful rejections. There is a bright hope out there. A journey of imaginative complete joy. Lewis Carroll and his Alice in Wonderland lives/of couse so also does the multicultural art mosaic of the far east and the middle east. I will ingest much of the sleek idea canvas of Paul Krugman today and of course, the great drummer for Miles, one Philly Joe. Boogie on down and do like the great B. Reynolds in Smokey, Bandit et. al. down at histoic Lakewood. Try to know life is a brilliant star, something bringing an ancient Georgian some real happiness. The philosophy of earth and green hope is so vivid, so filled with meaning it is like reading the grand, terse prose of one Paul Hemphill.