365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 273

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 30th, 2013

To sum up the extended weekend's adventures within the confines of today's post would be a tragedy.  No justice could possibly come of it.  I can confirm that a good time was certainly had and that there was an abundance of appreciative hand jazzings.  

Remember that duck pond in heaven I referred to a few months back?  Found it.

Eloquent words should be written to express the beauty of the moment captured in the image above.  On the contrary, it renders me speechless.  That seems appropriate since sunrises are best absorbed in silence.  

Imagine your author just out of view, complete with customary red hooded sweatshirt and a hot mug of camp coffee, deploying his Jazz Hands of the day in quiet awe.

And yes, at that particular moment in time, just prior to the day catching fire, I indeed spotted a duck.

Today's Jazz Hands are at peace.

Day two-hundred and seventy-three complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 272

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29th, 2013

This will be the final day of blog hijacking from me.  Your author will return tomorrow (or "on the morrow" as your author would regrettably phrase it), hopefully fond of my assistance with his daily posts.  

I'll leave you with a few brief tidbits of information, the first regarding your author...

He has a trick up his long sleeves.  Is he hiding something?  Likely nothing earth shattering...and nothing he hasn't already disclosed.

Another bit of information is that he himself has a collection of coffee mugs that could serve as a complete employment history section on his resume.  Why he doesn't get that, I don't know...but that was merely my way of having a bit of psychological fun with him.  He'll figure it out soon enough.

And finally, regarding Case Study #3...your author is carrying this game out pretty long and to be honest, I'm bored with his antics.  I already know the conclusion, so I'm going to come out and tell you that the authorities do not close the case, but they are baffled and have moved on for the most part.  Neither man in question has been found alive.  Neither man has been found...period.  I believe the point your author is making with this murder case, whether it's as clever of a point as he thinks or not, is that death is a form of creation.  In this particular death (or deaths), a baffling mystery is born, along with an enormous mess and piles of paperwork for crime scene officials.  Destruction is creation...got it.

My time as your interim poster is done.

Today's Jazz Hands have been hijacked for the last time (for a while, at least).

Day two-hundred and seventy-two complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 271

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28th, 2013

Admittedly, Robert Lochaven is not my real name.  I felt it important that you know this detail.  Very real, am I, except for my fictional name.  The name was given to me by your author to protect my real identity and more importantly, to protect you from reality.

A couple of other items that should be clarified is that I do, in fact, love salt, although I believe the symbolism is greatly exaggerated by your author to make some obscure point.  Your author's new home is, in fact, my home.  He really needs to take care of that leaky roof before I take it over, however.  And that kitchen is dreadful, especially the lighting.  Opposed to what he may or may not think, I'm not a huge fan of the car...but as I stated before, it will do.  Cameros are far better, though.  I'm sticking to my guns on that particular point.

I'd also like to clarify that bubble thing with respect to time.  

Yes.  I said that time is more like a series of bubbles, more than it is like a straight line.  But I also stated that if he, or anyone else likes the rope analogy, that's okay too, because in reality, time isn't a bubble, nor is it a tightrope.  It's not a rope of any kind.  It can't be.  Time can't be anything other than itself, which is irrelevant in the large scheme of things, and isn't remotely close to what most people believe it is.

If one must think of time as a rope, the tightrope is completely wrong.  Think instead of a rope with a lot of slack in it, that's much closer to the truth.

Time is confounding.  The one thing I can say with certainty, is that we are all traveling through the concept we have defined as "time."  I'm not unique in this way.

Today's Jazz Hands have been hijacked for the second straight day.

Day two-hundred and seventy-one complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 270

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27th, 2013

Allow me to introduce myself... 

First, I should point out that while your author is off neglecting his family, his responsibilities and above all else, his Jazz Hands reporting, I have decided to hold my post here in the swamps of the south, battling the rains and humidity and gators.  Rains and humidity, at the least.  I'm not a big fan of reptiles with giant teeth.  Come to think of it, I am not that fond of rain and humidity but find them much more tolerable than enormous lizards that may find me appetizing.

For your information, I exist within the context of reason, as I have assured as much to your author and as I hijack this blog for the next few days, you will notice a general lack of literary references, overreaching metaphors and existential crap.  You will not hear me refer to time travel, barring a forthcoming clarification, yet I am, according to your author, a time traveler.  

I can not refute the time travel claim entirely, since technically, I am a time traveler.  However, it is not the stuff of science fiction that some may like to believe...the fact of the matter is, we're all time travelers in the most mundane, normal way possible.  How does one age without moving from one moment in time to the next?

Upon your author's return, I shall relinquish the responsibilities of writing this daily blog back to him.  This is his obligation...I'm merely stepping on his toes.

Today's Jazz Hands have been hijacked.



Yours truly, 

Robert Lochaven

Day two-hundred and seventy complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 269

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26th, 2013

I bid you farewell until I return from this ancient ritual, from this autumnal embracing rumpus, from this primal, instinctual call to the wild.  

It is early on this day and I have an aeroplane to catch.  Not literally...I'm not that fast.

My next post will not be until Monday of next week, four days from now, at which time I will get these posts updated, reporting on the search for my fall and the associated shenanigans...and of course, my daily hand jazzings.  But for now, my pending travel day awaits.

Today's Jazz Hands have their seat and tray in the upright positions.  

Day two-hundred and sixty-nine complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 268

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25th, 2013

Today is Literal Wednesday.

The rain is relentless, and that is not a metaphor for the brooding, dark waters of the subconscious.  It's seriously wet outside.  Retention fields are full all around town, and this new dwelling of ours has some leaking issues.  If something is not done to quell the trickles that turn to puddles turn to warped hardwood floors turn to thousands of dollars worth of damage, we'll be knee deep in problems.  And that is meant to be taken both literally and metaphorically.

I can not think of a better time or a worse time to flee northward (Charles Dickens would be proud).

Again, the trip north is not a metaphor for escape, the fall season and my need to find the cool bite of crisp, fresh air do not represent the end of a life cycle.  Well, they are metaphors in their own right, but I will quite literally get on an airplane and head north to a place with cool, crisp air, on the morrow.

And for those of you not accustomed to knighthood and far off kingdoms tucked deep within jagged mountain ranges complete with drawbridges and fire breathing dragons, "on the morrow" literally refers to something occurring "tomorrow."  Nobody in their right mind talks like that in modern times (thank goodness) and to be perfectly straight forward, I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote it...but I'm not in an editor frame of mind, so there it stays.

It's out there.  Can't take it back.

Additionally, I am literally wearing long sleeves as the recent, thorough environmental soaking has rendered these lands totally saturated and significantly cooled...not due to some hidden deep dark secret under my shirt.  Except for goosebumps.  It's chilly.

Careful what you wish for.  Lesson learned.

As for my Jazz Hands deployments of late, the new bathroom mirror is, literally, much larger than the previous home's bathroom mirror, and it is, literally speaking, reflective surface overkill.

Three sides to the exact same thing is approximately two sides too many, and I do not need to see every angle of my jazzing hands.  However, I can...therefor you will read about the deployments that occur in front of, next to and behind this complex system of mirrors.  I literally went through the Jazz Hands motions today and I needed to put the deployment behind me as quickly as possible in order to get on with things.  There is much to accomplish prior to my inevitable departure (on the morrow), so to expedite the day's hand jazzing seemed abundantly necessary.  

I am now adequately prepared to abandon my family for a few days, leaving them with the lofty obligations and responsibilities this new home requires so that I may play the part of savage, deep within the belly of the woods, consuming only those items that can be prepared over an open, rip-roaring fire and of course, ice-cold beverages.  There exists some guilt associated with this expedition, but I have an obligation as a man to bury an axe in pieces of wood and then burn them...for days on end.

If by chance the wood is already split, I shall carry the pieces of wood that another man has chopped, and build a nice, warm fire.  

If by chance the wood is already split and the fire already started, I have an obligation, as a man, to sit by said warm fire that other men have built in the middle of the woods that has been partially axed and split by other men.  I must abide by this code, just like our ancient ancestors did before the modern trappings of our civilized culture came to be...and just as they did before us, I shall sit near a large cooler, filled with ice cold beverages. 

And I may also stop for pizza.  

Early man did not stop for pizza due to lack of opportunity and that is the only reason they did not stop for pizza.  If they could have they would have and I can so I will.

My next report will bid you farewell until I return from this ancient ritual, from this autumnal embracing rumpus, from this primal, instinctual call to the wild. 

Today's soggy Jazz Hands were nonfiction.  Literally. 

Day two-hundred and sixty-eight complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 267

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24th, 2013

The beginning of fall marks the rainy season's demise.  But not without resistance.  It begins insignificantly enough, the thick humid air becomes a heavy mist...

...but then the mist becomes a drop becomes a puddle grows into a pond forms into a lake grows into a sea.  And then the mist becomes a drop becomes a ripple forms a wave forms a storm surge.  And then the torrent subsides, the water warmed from the sun becomes evaporation becomes a mist forms a drop.  And etcetera becomes etcetera becomes and so on forms into and so forth.

The rains do what they like and what they like is destruction and a quote becomes a paraphrase...yet again.

A small leak along a seam forms a trickle becomes a drip destroys a foundation.

The swirling waters of the subconscious can be a treacherous place.

Day two-hundred and sixty-seven complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 266

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 2013

Death may beget life, as the story goes, but oppression can beget nothing other than itself.  I am in no position to argue that position and thus shall not be oppressed.  

I demand my fall and will not stop until I find it.

Rest assured, arrangements have been secured.  Northbound in two days time, I shall surround myself with the silent chaos of the world and watch flames consume the profound secrets of humanity.

Day two-hundred and sixty-six complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 265

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 2013

"So wicked does destruction appear to honest minds." (paraphrase) 

- Charles Dickens

In this heat it is difficult to sell the concept of autumn.  I must find the fall lest I forget the meaning of it entirely.  Tis the season for rituals, harvests and decay.  For waning light, long shadows and reverence.  I must go north to see for myself the reminders of grace.

It's time to make arrangements.

Today's Jazz Hands tell a tale of two lands.

Day two-hundred and sixty-five complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 264

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21st, 2013

There are too many of me.  This bathroom's three mirror system is a visually overwhelming sensory buzz kill.

Vague representations of myself staring back, they reflect fragments of reality, revealing truths in opposition.

The small adjacent mirror to my right is relatively useless in general.  Utilizing it requires contorting body position to the point of unreasonable.  The full length closet door mirror behind is not without merit but there is a downside to seeing the backside.  Truth be told it just might be the oversized kingdom of a mirror ahead that harbors the most reflected disdain.

Echoes of versions of likenesses of me, mostly unrecognizable, much like the land beyond that man looking back.  To climb through, explore and escape the heat of this candlelight and the shadows they cast, all seems like a work of fiction, nonsense to the casual observer.  

You may call it 'nonsense' if you like, but I've heard nonsense, compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!

Today's Jazz Hands went through the looking glass.

Day two-hundred and sixty-four complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 263

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 2013

Double Dream Hands was made famous by some choreographer/teacher at a high school somewhere north of where I sit on this fine, Friday morning.  It's Mr. Jacobson's signature move, so he gets all of the credit.  

He may have invented it.  But I have perfected it.

The move requires both hands behind your head, elbows out, pull your hands apart into a more traditional Jazz Hands style and voila!  You've deployed Double Dream Hands.  

The new homestead's bathroom has a mirror approximately double the scale of the previous house's bathroom mirror.  To boot, there is an additional mirror opposite, and adjacent.  This is a considerable amount of visual Jazz Hands coverage to the point of overwhelming, visual overload.  

Double Dream Hands makes for a nice break in the standard, daily routine and I find myself practicing more than what would be considered reasonable.  As I dance and spin and dramatically thrust my hands into the fresh, morning air, I must make certain the towel around my waste is fastened adequately, and that my wet feet do not slip on the ceramic tile floor.  

It goes without saying that Double Dream Hands are a nice varietal selection for early morning deployments.

The more I practice, the more my focus wanes.  I see myself in the mirror, hands and arms on the loose, yet the mind wanders to far off places.

Authorities have ruled out murder/suicide, assuming that if that were the case at least one body would have turned up by now.

My towel slips, so I break form for a beat or two in order to secure it back into place.  My feet are dry now, the caution flag for slipping danger has been lifted.

One of the two missing persons is most certainly dead considering the volume of blood found at the scene, resulting in only one missing person, but which one has not been determined.

Deliberate, confident movements are essential for any form of Jazz Hands, whether Spirit Fingers, Double Dream Hands or a more traditional deployment, slow energy is required, snapping limbs into place with precision.  

Accidental cause of death has been all but ruled out due to the blood splatter analysis conducted, the angles, the velocity and ferocity of the crimson evidence suggests deliberate causation.  This blood did not merely spill, it was a torrent.

Arms up.  Palms out.  Outward arches in opposite directions.  Slow energy, down to the sides.  CLAP, CLAP, CLAP.  Sudden arm redistribution so the hands are behind the head.  Double Dream Hands!  You know you've done this right if the tips of your fingers tingle with the quick rush of hot blood.

The search continues for two suspects and two victims, yet only one body can be found and only one man on the run remains.

Caught in the moment, there I stood, out of breath, towel on the floor.  How did I even get here?  Like a dream, the details are hazy and fading.  

It's time to get dressed.  Drink my coffee.  Make that commute.  Salute my friends, Becky and Keith.  Roll up my sleeves and get down to brass tacks achieving really important agendas all while following today's reality show script.

All of this so I can rush back home and finally get this weekend underway.

Day two-hundred and sixty-three complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 262

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th, 2013

As the earth shifts slightly toward its autumnal equinox, my evening commutes become increasingly shrouded in darkness.  Red taillights are blood flowing through a large, manmade circulatory system and as I pass through the portal intersection of West Kennedy Boulevard and Dale Mabry, I notice Robert Lochaven riding shotgun, chugging a large bottle of water, the unintended consequence of massive salt intake.

It has been a long, arduous day and my mind is foggy at best.  The sensation of swimming in thick, buttery milk comes directly to mind, not unlike the effects of mind-numbing prescription drugs that take you floating around the fringes of reality.

Sitting there in relative comfortable silence, time seems to halt completely until the bubble bursts and we finally speak our mind.

Self-taught to question everything I ask Robert Lochaven, "is this eventually your car or something?"

"I'd prefer a Camero, but this will do, if that's what you mean.  When's the last time you had the oil changed?"

Looking at the clear, plastic sticker in the upper left hand corner of the windshield I come close to answering the question in literal terms but cut myself short.  

"Are you for real?" 

He does not seem disturbed by the questioning, in fact he seems to have expected it.  He dutifully responds with a barrage of pointed questions of his own. 

"Are you for real?  Is Mitch for real?  Is any of this for real?  No doubt referencing the Royal 'Any of This' as he makes motions with his hands to indicate an all encompassing insinuation.  "You think I'm some sort of Pareidolia?  An Apophenia maybe?"

I have no clue what those are and have no answer for Robert Lochaven.  I pick up on the fact that his questions are rhetorical anyhow.

"For what it's worth, I am just as for real as you are for real," and then wraps the topic up in a nice ribbon with some conditional logic.  "If you are for real, and if I am just as for real as you are for real, then it follows that I am, without question, for real."  

It's difficult to argue against that.  Although I wonder how he knows about Mitch.

The remainder of our encounter finds Robert Lochaven rambling on about the man on the moon, animal shaped clouds, and hearing specific messages in rock music when played in reverse.  Apparently, according to Robert Lochaven, there is a basic, human tendency to seek  meaningful connections within random sets of collected data. 

Again, I can not argue against this air-tight thought process.  

The last thing he says to me as we travel through the opposite side of the portal intersection of West Kennedy Boulevard and Dale Mabry is, "Oh, by the way, I told you so."

Nonplussed, I respond with a question of my own, "Told me so what?!"

And just like that, he is gone.  I hesitate to ask the nature of Robert Lochaven's visits in any of our encounters and assume he's merely tagging along to assist in my inevitable leap off of the deep end.

The blood flow of traffic concludes as I pull into my driveway.  The day now resides in the rearview mirror.

Today's Jazz Hands had a specific experience of an abnormal meaningfulness within the ambiguous confines of reality's blurred boundaries.

Day two-hundred and sixty-two complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 261

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18th, 2013

The scent of diesel fuel with a hint of garlic swirls through the early afternoon air as as the Blood Bus idles and nearby Italian restaurants begin preparations for this evening's dinner onslaught.  

I enter the donation facility on wheels with high anticipation for the greeting of cheery, bright eyed specialists waiting for my arrival.  Just like everything else, a modest change has occurred since last check, most notably, Rotund Finger Prick Lady has been replaced by Finger Poker With Disregard To Readiness and/or Nerve Endings Guy.

I attempt small talk.  I ask if daylight troubles him.  

Nothing.

I notice his coffee mug, filled to the half way with water and notice the logo of a nearby hospital plastered on the side and ask if he works at Mortan-Plant-Mease, which is located a stones throw away from Tampa proper.  

A subtle nod and a mumbled "used to," indicating very little passion for the matter.  I will not be getting anything from this guy today.  

Moving on.

I sit down in the extraction lounger and am promptly greeted by a familiar face, her usual pleasantries notwithstanding.  She offers cold hands and stainless steel.  

All problems seem to fade and a sense of freedom is renewed the moment that little needle plunges into my vein allowing the blood to escape.  In order for regeneration, a liter must go.  Creation by virtue of destruction.  A red tempest rages out from my body and into the plastic blood holder bag thingy.

The patient across from me comments on the crisp, cool air within the vehicle.  Our attentive specialist refrains from the standard response in jest.  When my turn is done she offers me an extra large t-shirt and states that it's the only size available.  Take it or leave it.

I take it, but not without letdown.  Where's the inside joke?  Where's the glance between technicians and the devilish smile?

I gather my bearings and acquired belongings, the bag of salty snacks, a soda, an extra large t-shirt, the promise of a free steak dinner, a handful of hypodermic needles and other plastic medical odds and ends for the road, and exit the bus. A waft of garlic filters in and our sourpuss Blood Extraction Specialist hurries to slam the door behind me.  These modern vampires do not appreciate the smell of good Italian food.

And it's raining.

Today's Jazz Hands are cold.

Day two-hundred and sixty-one complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 260

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17th, 2013

The trick is to arrive with short sleeves, revealing that there are no hidden track marks in and around the areas of vital interest.  This will no doubt save precious moments of everyone's time.

If you are not familiar with the term, "track marks" commonly refers to the small pin holes where needles have found purchase within the arm's veins, often found on heroin abusers. 

Apparently, heroin use and the sharing of needles associated with that particular lifestyle is a red flag of sorts to medical blood extracting personnel, indicating a much higher than average chance that the individual with these track marks might be carrying a transferrable disease such as H.I.V.

It seems one must make the decision in life to either use heroin, or give blood.  Never both.

Or perhaps the drug abuse lifestyle can accommodate blood donating, so long as long periods of abstaining from the illegal substance is practiced in preparation of the blood donating, or get a bunch of donating out of the way first and then take a walk on the wild side.  I suppose there is a way to have your cake and eat it too...that is, if you liken donating blood to eating cake, and heroin injections to having it too.  Although it's likely the other way around.

Or you can stick needles between the toes, decreasing the immediate gratification and power of the mind altering substance, but also decreasing the chances of getting turned away at the blood bank due to obvious track marks.  Blood Extraction Specialists do not require patients to remove their shoes for inspection...just an FYI.

But that would be incredibly dishonest, not to mention reckless, taking into account how many lives you'd endanger with a potential auto-immune related virus that is commonly found in needle sharing drug abusers.

Since it's vaguely related, I should note that I have not seen our friend Pops in quite a long time, and that I do not recall seeing him wearing a short sleeved shirt.  Come to think of it, I have never seen him donating blood either, which begs a curious observation regarding his whereabouts and questionable lifestyle.  Considering his line of work, or lack thereof, it's not a far fetched insinuation.  I'd hardly hold it against him, all things considered.

With autumn fast approaching short sleeves will soon fade into summer's horizon and we'll all look like we're hiding something under our long sleeves.  Admittedly, I will be taking a blood donation sabbatical in addition to hanging up the short sleeves for a long stretch as well.  Tomorrow I shall donate blood to the bus residents one last time and in five short days the fall season will be upon us marking a mere one-hundred days until this year's expiration.  

Our remaining months are waning and with them "365 Days of Jazz Hands" is on the downswing.  

Today's Jazz Hands can see the horizon line.

Day two-hundred and sixty complete.