L.A.Matthews
05-12-2007, 06:55 PM
I hope this is slightly less depressing than my other stuff, and hopefully shows more potential. Enjoy.:)
Karl
Karl plays trumpet in his room all day. He surrounds himself with the old Jazz greats – Davis, Coltrane, and Rollins, you know – and snaps his fingers to the groove; digging that Blue Train chug. Although he knew that the Golden era of Jazz had long passed, he couldn’t help but idolise them for not only being pure Jazz essence, but because he knew, and so did his heart, that the rhythm that flowed was more than music. It was more than sound. The quiet tsk’s from the ride cymbal did it most for him, even though he was a trumpeter. Once he heard the little patters that started the piece he knew that what followed was something worth cherishing for not only that moment, but for the rest of the song and the rest of the day. Jazz was not only a hobby for Karl, it was almost his life. If this was the only thing that escaped him from himself, and from his surroundings, surely it was worth being so passionate for.
Of course, Karl didn’t have such a bad life. He was a straight-A student and things were going well for him. Although stunned by the recent break-up of his girlfriend, he found more life within himself; not constrained by anything other than his own boundaries – which were infinite. He could do what he wanted without that lustful eye peering over his shoulder to check.
His parents were separated, in the sense that they live together but swung, so to speak; they were on good terms. They didn’t fight or anything, just ‘disagreements’, as they put it, whereby ‘disagreements’ was a muddy veil for them to put over themselves, rather than Karl. They were obviously naïve of the maturity of their only son. Even so, they were good parents and had a good relationship with him. They encouraged him on his hobbies with music, literature, and whatever else he was interested in. Liberal in their upbringing, too.
Karl was a tall boy that wore old hand-me-downs that his father wore when he was hitting 20 as well. He stooped a little on the shoulders, but nothing that made him look like a freak or a scary recluse that you see in the town, carrying loads of plastic bags. The only thing that his stooped complimented was his trumpet playing; not so much the technique, but the fact it looked cooler than standing upright. ‘You can’t play Miles looking like a stick; you need to feel relaxed with how you feel,’ he’d often respond. He’d often wear straight jeans that showed his long legs, and no top. Often too hung-over to even care about what his hair looked like, he’d play trumpet anyway because it didn’t really matter to him what he looked like. Although saying that, he’d never play his trumpet without showing at least some respect to the instrument.
He woke up one morning, after a night on the fags and cider, to find his mouth like a deep crevice or quarry. He often wondered why his mouth could possibly get so dry after all the fluid he drank – if it really mattered whether it was vodka or cider, he didn’t know. He’d clamber out of bed with all the elegance of what Jazz wasn’t, but that was the joy of Jazz; the elegance in inelegance. Scratching his arse, and trying to slap his lips to get that tiny bit of spit to his mouth, he’d cowboy walk to the bathroom for that hangover shit. Especially with cider you need it, because it seems to dump itself at the very pit of your stomach.
He was just about to leave the toilet, but the mirror caught his eye before he could open the door. For minutes he stared blindly at his own reflection. This wasn’t a gaze of pure vanity, but more like a questioning watch of himself and a deep and close inspection of the crisp creases of his fixed frown.
-L. A. Matthews
Karl
Karl plays trumpet in his room all day. He surrounds himself with the old Jazz greats – Davis, Coltrane, and Rollins, you know – and snaps his fingers to the groove; digging that Blue Train chug. Although he knew that the Golden era of Jazz had long passed, he couldn’t help but idolise them for not only being pure Jazz essence, but because he knew, and so did his heart, that the rhythm that flowed was more than music. It was more than sound. The quiet tsk’s from the ride cymbal did it most for him, even though he was a trumpeter. Once he heard the little patters that started the piece he knew that what followed was something worth cherishing for not only that moment, but for the rest of the song and the rest of the day. Jazz was not only a hobby for Karl, it was almost his life. If this was the only thing that escaped him from himself, and from his surroundings, surely it was worth being so passionate for.
Of course, Karl didn’t have such a bad life. He was a straight-A student and things were going well for him. Although stunned by the recent break-up of his girlfriend, he found more life within himself; not constrained by anything other than his own boundaries – which were infinite. He could do what he wanted without that lustful eye peering over his shoulder to check.
His parents were separated, in the sense that they live together but swung, so to speak; they were on good terms. They didn’t fight or anything, just ‘disagreements’, as they put it, whereby ‘disagreements’ was a muddy veil for them to put over themselves, rather than Karl. They were obviously naïve of the maturity of their only son. Even so, they were good parents and had a good relationship with him. They encouraged him on his hobbies with music, literature, and whatever else he was interested in. Liberal in their upbringing, too.
Karl was a tall boy that wore old hand-me-downs that his father wore when he was hitting 20 as well. He stooped a little on the shoulders, but nothing that made him look like a freak or a scary recluse that you see in the town, carrying loads of plastic bags. The only thing that his stooped complimented was his trumpet playing; not so much the technique, but the fact it looked cooler than standing upright. ‘You can’t play Miles looking like a stick; you need to feel relaxed with how you feel,’ he’d often respond. He’d often wear straight jeans that showed his long legs, and no top. Often too hung-over to even care about what his hair looked like, he’d play trumpet anyway because it didn’t really matter to him what he looked like. Although saying that, he’d never play his trumpet without showing at least some respect to the instrument.
He woke up one morning, after a night on the fags and cider, to find his mouth like a deep crevice or quarry. He often wondered why his mouth could possibly get so dry after all the fluid he drank – if it really mattered whether it was vodka or cider, he didn’t know. He’d clamber out of bed with all the elegance of what Jazz wasn’t, but that was the joy of Jazz; the elegance in inelegance. Scratching his arse, and trying to slap his lips to get that tiny bit of spit to his mouth, he’d cowboy walk to the bathroom for that hangover shit. Especially with cider you need it, because it seems to dump itself at the very pit of your stomach.
He was just about to leave the toilet, but the mirror caught his eye before he could open the door. For minutes he stared blindly at his own reflection. This wasn’t a gaze of pure vanity, but more like a questioning watch of himself and a deep and close inspection of the crisp creases of his fixed frown.
-L. A. Matthews