Zen and the Art of Making Macaroni
It's all Jazz to Me
It’s the kind of day when it rains all day. When Dave Brubeck plays on the hifi and you run out of coffee but that’s all right because the coffee shop is empty on days like today. It’s fall break, and half the neighborhood is out of town, so you are free to sleep in and catch up on work and good movies and enjoy the ease of a day that doesn’t demand to be rushed.
And that’s nice.
It’s the kind of day where you finish your book and start a new one, when all seems right with the world, and you make three vats of soup for another day, because tonight you’ll be feasting on ratatouille before all this produce goes bad.
Aren’t we done with eggplant, your wife wonders, and the answer is ratatouille. It’s a funny dish, they call it a stew, but it looks like stir fry to me. I’m always amazed at how many ways we can name the same thing with just slightly mixed-up arrangements. Maybe that’s jazz. Maybe I’ll make Macaroni Beaucaire instead.
Maybe the macaroni is me.
Today in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, we read Robert Pirsig approaching the nothingness of everything, trying to reconcile Kant with the mystics, trying to make sense of a universe that just keeps folding in on itself like laundry.
When in doubt, he rides. When the thoughts are all consuming, when you just can’t grok this thing called reality anymore, all that’s left to do is ascend the mountain that calls you deeper into the valley.
If you had a telescope powerful enough, they say, if you zoomed in closely and concentrated hard enough, you’d see the back of your own head. Everything is recursive. It’s all a flat circle—or something. But that’s physics, and after a while it starts to sound like poetry to me.
“Singing in the Rain” plays over these Infinity speakers now, and it sounds all mixed up, like a Miró painting. If you examine the fabric of life too closely, it starts to break into shapes and squiggles that can no longer be contained by boxes, time signatures, or even a steady beat.
Soon, all you see is jots and tittles, like the beginning to Finnegan’s Wake—little marks attempting meaning—and you see yourself in the mix, wondering where you fit. I’m not sure. I think that’s the dance that even Bing Crosby couldn’t do.
Jazz, my friend Paul tells me, is an inside joke, you either get it or you don’t. And if you don’t, you’re square. And nobody wants to be square, not even Miró.
The rain is dying down now, but not fully in the grave, and the rest of an unsteady day calls to me. I’m not sure where I heard all this in the first place. Was it my grandfather or an episode of True Detective? It may not matter in the end. It might all just be macaroni, but with a different name.
All I know is I’ve got a book to edit, another to read, a new song to practice on guitar, and a meal to make—with some smooth jazz to keep me company.
It’s the kind of day when it rains all day.
What kind of day is it where you are?
You are one of my favorite writers. I know few people who paint with words and evoke feelings as you do. I hope you are working on your own book as well. I am always happy to see one of your posts in my inbox although they often make me crave something I didn’t realize I lacked. I saw a Miro exhibit once, by chance. I was on a tour and the bus stopped…we had an hour or two free and there was a museum with a sign for his exhibit. I took my son and was astonished as I felt something…emanating from those paintings. He, like you, is not a regular artist. And I like that.
Jeff, your post is both hectic and peace-giving in tone. I too have had that kind of day here on an unusually warm and sunny day in San Francisco. Following Julia Cameron’s advice, I did both a walk and an artist date while taking my car downtown for ongoing repairs and dealing with the insurance company. . I usually let circumstances, serendipity and the Holy Spirit direct me. I ended up at the area of City Hall and discovered the fantastic, huge main branch of the public library. I got a library card, saw a tattoo exhibition, checked out Michener’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book Tales from the South Pacific, bought 3 used books for 12 dollars (including Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), took photos all over the area and took an Uber back to my digs. I am now sticking a feather in my cap and calling it macaroni in honor of a great day. Sounds like yours was, too!