MONDAY, JANUARY 14th, 2013
If you are unfamiliar with the Michigan J. Frog tale, the story has a fairly sad conclusion. Michigan's master was so driven by greed that it eventually drives him mad. Michigan's inability to cooperate results in his master discarding him just before getting committed to the asylum. As luck shall have it, the box containing the frog is somehow discarded in a time capsule and subsequently rediscovered in the year 2056. You'll have to suspend disbelief for the 100 year-old frog...it is a cartoon after all. The futuristic man that rediscovers Michigan looks eerily similar to the original master, starting the whole sequence of events over again. Sequences bring patterns and routine to mind...
That's my segue way and I'm sticking to it.
Fundamentally sound "Jazz Hands" requires a sequence of repeated movement. By definition, repeated movements in a sequence is a pattern (I'd appreciate the benefit of the doubt here). This stands to reason that a dance "routine" is considered so due to the pattern of sequential movements strung together. Another word for a pattern of sequential movements strung together is "rhythm." I believe this realization will eventually help me navigate toward proper hand jazzing form. The good news is that there are patterns, sequences and rhythm virtually everywhere you look. The bad news is that routine begets contempt...as the saying almost goes. Take the morning commute as a prime example. Every single day it is the same thing. The same street signs the same street lights the same intersections the same trees the same bridge the same beggars the same texting teenagers the same gawkers the same parking structure. Repeat this drive five times a week, four times a month, twelve months a year, for Lord knows how many years, you have a sequence. Looking closer there are micro-patterns within the larger frame. Some things seem random but even randomness has a sense of structure to it if you pay close attention.
"Pops" is an elderly gentleman that stands at one particular intersection holding a sign describing his tale of whoa. I know his name is "Pops" because he wears a little "Hello, My Name Is" name tag. Pops is a "veterin" and he "neds" my help. I have given the man Combos to ease his pain, have rolled down my car window just to say hello and he seems like a nice enough man. Some days he's there at the intersection, some days he is not. I go long stretches without seeing him at all and I wonder if something bad has occurred only for him to re-emerge, sometimes with a new sign and on occasion he's just standing there talking on his cell phone. He'll be there a couple of days then out of the blue disappears again. Despite the seemingly random nature of Pops's whereabouts and the whereabouts of his colleagues (the term "colleagues" is not used ironically in this case), these street folk are on a specific rotation. There is a pattern, executed with precision. I don't know whether to be impressed by their discipline or put off by their deception. The broad picture is that there is pattern and structure at every turn. The schedule of the bums, the lines on the highway, the waves in the water as I drive along the causeway, every breath, beat of the heart, etcetera. I have within me, as we all do, the capacity to pull off "Jazz Hands" even if it takes me 365 days to figure it out. Of course, today's attempt seems to suggest otherwise, but the routine will continue, eventually becoming a well orchestrated pattern of sequential movements strung together...I shall have rhythm. I just hope that the routine does not beget contempt. Day fourteen complete. Day fourteen complete. Day fourteen...you get the idea...complete.
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