Sunday, February 24, 2013

Untied 2

She hits play.
Her ears are open, her pace steady, the air cold.
It's morning.
She listens, waits for the first note, smiles in anticipation.
She's transported instantaneously to a place inside of her that is submerged with so much grace and so much joy.
It's coming out of all her pores.
She's on the jazz bus, the jazz teleporter, the jazz drug, she doesn't know what it is.
Her spirit is lifted so high and so fast that her heart jumps a little.
The place she goes to in her mind makes her feel safe.
The light is dim, wine is at room temperature.
She hears laughter, plates and trumpet.
The first notes of The Jitterbug Waltz. Seconds later, the other jazz monsters' instruments come in and it all just flies out of the speakers and breaks the ceiling open and lets so much light in. That cymbal beat.
She doesn't need anything else. It's so fucking perfect.
"Fucking" isn't the poetic word she's looking for but it pretty much sums up how truly, spontaneously, insanely perfect jazz makes everything.
It captures and distils life's essence, filtering negativity and stupidity and close-mindedness, forcing her awareness to focus on the present moment, to measure its glory and gorgeousness.
Her happiness is complete, immediate, orgasmic and religious.
She wants to laugh out loud, make love on the grass, dance with a dog, talk for hours, draw freely and eat a vegetarian curry, one with seitan, mushrooms and potatoes.

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