I don't mind Mondays
Good morning all. On reflection I realise that my recent blogs have been a little scatty and or a wee bit on the whiny side (noooo?) so I am now endeavoring to stop writing about belly button fluff and how terribly tiring it is living in the tropics and coping with these infernal what nots and tell you some nice stories instead, lest you get the impression it's all essays and despair here...
Jazz hands part 1
Last week I went and saw some live music. Jazz quartet in a tapas bar. It was a nice, narrow, dark, groovy venue and I soaked up the ambience like a po-faced Sydneysider finally returning to a comfortable monochrome nest after the unsettling abundance of florals out in the real world. I sat on a couch and drank beer and did jazz nodding and was as happy as a little warm piglet squirming in the wet dark squish of the field. The band were young guys, earnest keyboardist with jiggly shoulders and an intense frown, cute bass player (what is it with bass players) with jaw length rock hair, still in that skinny, paws too big for him phase, and a hidden drummer with a penchant for the cymbols. The singer was in a league of her own (or a fashion universe of her own at the very least - youch, who said that?). Orange cowl neck flouro number and blurred phoenetic renditions and YTT smile. My po-face set in a grimace as I ordered another beer (for purely medicinal purposes).
Good morning all. On reflection I realise that my recent blogs have been a little scatty and or a wee bit on the whiny side (noooo?) so I am now endeavoring to stop writing about belly button fluff and how terribly tiring it is living in the tropics and coping with these infernal what nots and tell you some nice stories instead, lest you get the impression it's all essays and despair here...
Jazz hands part 1
Last week I went and saw some live music. Jazz quartet in a tapas bar. It was a nice, narrow, dark, groovy venue and I soaked up the ambience like a po-faced Sydneysider finally returning to a comfortable monochrome nest after the unsettling abundance of florals out in the real world. I sat on a couch and drank beer and did jazz nodding and was as happy as a little warm piglet squirming in the wet dark squish of the field. The band were young guys, earnest keyboardist with jiggly shoulders and an intense frown, cute bass player (what is it with bass players) with jaw length rock hair, still in that skinny, paws too big for him phase, and a hidden drummer with a penchant for the cymbols. The singer was in a league of her own (or a fashion universe of her own at the very least - youch, who said that?). Orange cowl neck flouro number and blurred phoenetic renditions and YTT smile. My po-face set in a grimace as I ordered another beer (for purely medicinal purposes).
Jazz hands part 2
(or, 'it wasn't just about the sax')
Here is my beat poetry about what ensued:
oh you, there, squeaking and sqwarking like a trilling beige panted bird you go there and there and there you, man, you do not see, beyond the c sharp of your polished beast one hand on it and one hand on your pocket, fingers clutching your hopes for the future holding both your trilling fantasies of ascending, and my eyes catch gold and you catch me your ride on lonely notes you play you look, you!
Yes girls and boys I sidled up to the sax player (who was cunningly not mentioned in jazz hands part 1 - do you see how I keep the plot twisting, oh the literary panache of it all) and we chatted and it was nice and we did numbers and eyes and all that. But? But? I hear you ask... Yes well. Talk about an anticlimax, a peversely built up nothing at all. I blame the answering machine at home which accepts messages but wont let you hear them. Surely there's a sea of plaintive messages waiting for me in lost message space, increasingly despondant, spiralling into worldess jazz squeaks.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home