Sunday Jazz

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I dive into letters this morning. My fingers need to re-familiarize themselves with both pen and keyboard. A little bit of jazz at the back helps chill the murky waters of my writing. The music is smooth, like fine wine sliding down your throat.

I time my tapping with the beat of jazz. The words whistle along the tune. The trumpet puts in a declarative statement — Sunday is smothered in drizzle, the music makes its way around the maze of water.

——

I’ve realized that I’ve been making some weird hand gestures when I write, like I’m trying to grab a number of words flying around my head. I take hold of a verb, only to find it unfit. I open my hand and let it fly, once again, from my palm. My fingers are the net, a capturing device, a poor filter. Words continue to flap. I get dizzy.

——

Yesterday, Ahj and I were slowly sealing the deal regarding the possible venue for this event in July. We’re gonna confirm our plans this afternoon.

It’s always scary taking the leap, but without risk life is but a repetitive playlist. Sometimes you have to hijack the airwaves to see if the tension can hold everything together. Tension is always necessary. It keeps everyone awake, aware.

 

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