The pizza is delicious but that’s because if I don’t eat every four hours I will eat a hand-written description of a slice of pizza that has been photocopied several times then faxed to me from out of state. It’s been three hours since my last meal. No offense, Blaze, but really, is there anything in the world that can’t shut up for a slice of pizza?
Me thinks not.
Even in a restaurant full of hungry strangers, each concerned with his or her own meal, Jaye demands attention in the quietest of ways. No matter the flow of the room or the temperature of the moment, he moves at his own speed. The meteorites hear the clock ticking in their ears, sounding the approaching moment when their surface will give way and everything will fall apart. This sun, however, has trillions of years but what’s most impressive is once again, he seems to be unaware or unconcerned with this notion. He doesn’t move at his own pace because it’s fashionable to swim against the grain, he moves at his own pace because that’s Jaye.
In between mouthfuls of pizza we talk about the heaviness of all things: work, relationships, dreams, pursuits, fitness, fashion, white peoples, black peoples, Asian peoples, cookies, shoes, we even fit in an alligator. I, of course, realize I’m all over the place; settling on a state of mind only long enough to say that I stopped there but not long enough to learn anything from the moment. The room and I buzz around Jaye with a kinetic energy that almost seems juvenile if not blind entirely. But there is a stillness about Jaye, the stillness of a man who sees and hears everything, measures it, considers its value, then decides what to do with it.