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The Mort Report

A Brief History of Ragtime to 3/4 aka A Waltz Through the Cosmic Thought Process

A Brief History of Ragtime to 3/4 aka A Waltz Through the Cosmic Thought Process
By Published: August 21, 2013
Opening!

Screaming through the quagmire of being, I see—nay, feel—justification of the heat of singularity of thought. Yearning of (and for) all energies spinning—not only in the dance of Shiva, but in the fulfillment of a manifest destiny of understanding and love that gives forth its eternal fires of hope and the many tomorrows that can & will exist in the immutable paradigms of reception and order, thus bringing together the complete schism of an entity of pre- and/or post-existence on the plains of destiny thereof. Enabling the existence of the mere act of existing itself, to be put into a comprehensive matrix of its own particles of energy that pour forth the composition of thought and tranquility in this highly charged energetic swirl of being.

Largo. "Read slow and meaningful."

A calm engulfs me—a feeling of completeness and belonging touches deep into my aching heart, that has so long gone unnourished—uncared for, un-understood...so, so alone. I sense her presence next to me: does she comprehend the completeness of the meaning of our flight, high and above the valleys of deceit and envy? We soared high and through the white clouds of joy—joy, yes joy—no sadness, no sadness, hand in hand, mind in mind, our fledgling flight of knowledge and self-discovery beginning to diminish as we glide slowly and tranquilly to the plane of existence from whence we emerged. We will now part. Each of us going our separate ways to an unknown destiny that we—all of us—must travel to, as the force of all that mobilizes dictates that we must ultimately gravitate. I cry out in silence to my beloved, I SSSCRREEEMMM to her no—no, NO—as she walks to the crest of the hill into the setting sun. She tops the rise and, in starting down the other side grows less and less and le ... and is forever gone, and once again, I—am— alone ... so very alone...

Moderato! Laid back, read with a beat!

Standing at the rail of a vortex of being, I cannot help but to be drawn inward to the many, many factors of the serendipity of thought and action that dwell within that frame of reference that I make a judgmental observation to the comprehension to those entities that dwell in the dungeons of my very being. Canst thou not also feel the presence of a Homeric poem from the very air that we breathe? An indisputable feeling of total and complete remorse makes itself known to my awareness of the truths and lies that nourish my soul, from the outer regions of thought and creation and eternal fires of birth: life and change. To this, then, I yield to the carrion culture that all must feed—the life force that once mobilized us is not but a burned out shell of what once was and now never will be again. Your tears of loss mean nothing to me now—I am but a memory: a once wisp of wind that caressed your life only for the moment that it took to pass. Doth thou not feel any loss? I don't care anymore...I—don't—care—anymore...

Allegro! "Read briskly; feel, rather than look at the words."

Every time we say goodbye I cry a little; every time we say good bye I die a little; every time we say goodbye I try a little; every time we say goodbye I a little; every time we say goodbye tit'a little; every time we say goodbye I diminish; every time we say god fi a little every time we say I don't give a shit a little. We must, never say a little—I love you, I need you, I kneel down before you!!! Please, please, never say...goodbye..a little...

Presto Vivace: i.e. read very, very fast!

Nay, scan—don't try to focus on the words; repeat, over and over again and soon a thought pattern will make itself known. Trust me, it will. M.W.

ZZZZZZZZZZAAAAMMMMMim It comes so quicklyzzzzzz and leaves its indelible mark on any vagrant soul left untendedzzz but to your feelings of oppressed and deferential love gone blindzzzzit comes as no sense of priority or the subsequent use of that immutable fact that engulfszzzzzthose of us left to proponder the endless questions of time immimorialzzzz and the Macavillian demands zz that make there wayzzzinto the ABSOLUTE CORRIDORS of thought zzzzTRANSFERENCE ZZZZZZZZZZBEGGGINNNGS of the END. To what the metaphoric principle of thought transcends the endless velocity and concurrence of time itself. This is MY TESTAMENT; so be it!

And finally ... Dolce

My song is ending now. As I exit. center stage—my performance but a memory to those who watched and heard—the theater door will close behind me, never to open again. The cold, sad gloomy winter wind beckons to me in its mournful dance to endless horizon's that seem much closer now than in the morn. A slow-shuffling gait brings me closer and closer to its vastness of thought and oneness with the regions of being that encompasses it's scope of existence. The hills, the snow, the laughter—her laughter!—sing throughout my every fiber of feeling that this tired, very used body of mine can resonate with all of the love that a man, this man—Me!!—will ... never ... never ... know ... again. The Song Has Ended, but ... Finito, thus.

Afterthoughts from and about me.

I was born in 1935 doing the great depression in Mckeesport. Pennsylvania. Came to Los Angeles California in 1945 with my parents, in a 1941 Chevrolet, highway 40 to St. Louis—to the (very old two-lane) Route 66. Grew older in L.A.: ran and played and surfed its beaches; hiked in the hills and nearby mountains; and saw and felt the magic that permeated the very air in and around a dying Hollywood of old.

I worked and performed in the new medium—television—throughout my teens. Graduating Susan Miller Dorsey High School June 1952, I was drafted into the Army November 1954-1956, the 1st Infantry Division ("The Big Red One"). Upon my return to civilian life, I took a look around me and... "Let the Good Times Roll."

I worked and played tenor sax in and around Hollywood/Reno/Las Vegas in various rock 'n' roll and R&B bands, learned how to drink and take uppers to hit that just right groove/feeling that, at 23 years of age, knows no boundaries or limits—only the groove...oh yeah, only the groove, man!

195,7 formed my own band (see "Mort Wise and The Wisemen"). We, in the parlance of the day before yesterday—rocked!. Literally built a nightclub with all the people we drew in each night.

We rocked Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Reno, Long Beach—and people and places that don't even exist anymore (did they really ever?) It was such a long time ago!

Partied and partied and played my horn and partied nonstop for three or four years; met and lived with someone off and on; fathered two children: a girl/daughter and boy/son. Partied and partied and played my horn; 1962, my mother commits suicide...partied, played my horn. Did numerous jail times, mostly for being drunk and disorderly and fighting. Partied and partied; didn't play my horn much—it really was sex, drugs and bebop! Vodka, cheap wine, Benzedrine, Dexedrine, pot, three packs of Salems and hash. Drove a taxicab in Hollywood at night (stoned) for a year; drove a Good Humor ice cream truck, worked as a roofer—a deconstructing crew—didn't party much; painted a two-story office building (inside and out) by myself on Melrose, three blocks west of Vine St in Hollywood.

Was a kept man (a gigolo, if you will) in Hollywood for about a year—movie industry wives and like that! Didn't have an automobile for five years, ended up living in the streets of L.A. and sleeping in all-night Laundromats. Got lucky and got a week's lodging in a Salvation Army board and care rest home for all the broken down people out on the streets. Finally woke up in a padded cell in the main police building downtown Los Angeles and, as I stood there naked—looking at the rust-colored walls and floor and ceiling—it very strongly occurred to me that I just might be doing something wrong with my life and from that moment on...

Wel,l here I am—78 years old and feelin'—real good! Hope y'all' dug the read! I remain— --Mort Weiss

Photo Credit

Steve Gugerty


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