A POSSUM GREETS me in the driveway. Lifts its nose into headlights before waddling off in shadows. I bring K out to look for it. We sense nothing but moist spring air and the rustling of new elm leaves. The sky reflects a pinkish orange light and no stars are visible. It's a quiet night. We're broke—end of month. Hoa's body heals. We sit tight, listen to crickets and eat what others kindly prepare for us. Django Reinhardt plucks a vibrant guitar beat. Coleman Hawkins' full buttery sax sound opens the kitchen this evening, moths flitting in a light. Imagine a wide-open Midwest dance hall. That mid-century baritone fills the place—a Coca-Cola world of men and women feeling their bodies. Hands and machines and each other, the force of night between them with music opening through blood the corny rhythms of Kansas City. What appetite of the imagination made such a place? such a music? Jazz found America like the Loa came into Haiti. Possession of flesh and bone, hot breath in brass to embody the invisible pulse migrations of climate and atmosphere. Open a cold beer. K holds a book for me to read. Exhausted from the day. Coins in my pocket. He fingers a penny. Spins it on the wood floor midst dust bunnies and cat hair. Played this music when Waylon was born. Roy Eldridge, Benny Carter, Art Tatum, Tiny Grimes. "I Surrender Dear." "Under a Blanket of Blue."
Posted by Dale at May 20, 2004 04:58 PM