After Jazz

Whatever hole I emerged out of must have been deeper, darker, and muddier than you and yours. No wonder that, when I saw the faintest light–the regular amount that regular people’s eyes are adjusted to–I thought I had seen more than anyone before. I find in my most regular of days that all I have succeeded in seeing is what others see ordinarily, but to see this as extraordinary. And anything beyond the objective ordinary is, to me, an exhalation that I step toward with clicking heels.

So tonight I find myself inside of what looks to be a wedding-cake of a room, the corners of ceiling and wall frosted with pastel roses and vines. Trying to retain the synchrony of noises but nauseous–nauseous in the face of beauty! Surrounded by mirrors, seeing myself sip ginger ale from the angle of my choice. A vanilla Whitefish Bay mom pats her son’s leather-jacketed shoulder, asks me if Marx was a philosopher–her father in law was a Marxist, she declares. She’s pretty. What do you do? I work in business and marketing. Oh, lovely!

A man with falling eyeballs, old and heavy and much too abrasive for this room–for the wedding cake and all its softness–eats Doritos and brags about his grandson who’s studying computer science: oh he’s so mathematically oriented, he could do anything he wants, and you should add me on Facebook and I’ll connect you with my blog on the arts, but here, meet my attorney, he went to Marquette.

(How much liquid have I consumed today; did I leave the shade up; how many pages of reading will I have time to get through after this is over (when will this be over); should I paint the face first or the body?)

Sorry, you were saying?


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