To play with John Coltrane

A new venture now. Marked primarily with the odd choice of fasting. I feel the body changing. Refraining from the lonesomely romantic nights of wine and the typewriter filled with the hope of what might turn out. Frustrations weren’t from the wine, however. I want to produce more and that can only come from, I think, an abstinence from the products whose importance i have now called into serious question. But these matters are trivial. The first few nights may be rough, but something is keeping me from reaching the other side. And how I want to breach the wall.

Rimbaud spoke of food deprivation and it struck a chord that was already strung tight. Cannot concern myself with what is being written and must continue forward.

Oh this is quickly becoming misery. But on this night, along with last night, I recall all sorts of figures that have almost come full circle and sing to me now. Brando, Rimbaud, Morrison, Patti Smith, Kerouac, Dylan. Misery for me tonight. NO food. Nothing. Black and emptiness into oblivion. Into the unknown. One last gasp.

What’s it like to play with Coltrane I once asked.

He turned to me and said, “You have to be willing to die for the motherfucker.”

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