Monday, May 10, 2010

Round Midnight

This saxophone is made of miles of silver and each finger on each key touches the truth. His fingers dance over her keys like the crackle of electricity sparking over the eternal wires beneath the sublime, animating the ethereal under and around us. She speaks in riddles but just because we don't immediately understand does not mean she hasn't just said the names of each and every one of us and just because these stories have been told before, just because the same tale was told by Dizzy, by Ella, by Bird, by Miles, even by Kirk Whalum, doesn't mean that each time, each and every time, the tale was not freshly spun. The sound curls through the air towards us and cradles in our earlobes and, like a newborn child, declares this home and falls asleep.

4 Comments:

Blogger The 27th Comrade said...

You had vanished almost entirely! And now that you are back, thank the Heavens. And I even moved blogs. :o)

Good shit. Is there a pun, in the first sentence, about Miles Davis? Confess!

10:28 AM  
Blogger ~ScotchBiscuits~ said...

It is kind of hard to wrap words around beautiful music...but you, you pull it off nicely!!

3:54 PM  
Blogger cavalier said...

Thanks 27th. I'm trying to be more serious. Let's see if I can blog every day. Wish me luck.

Scotchie, you are music, you know that.

7:48 AM  
Anonymous petesmama said...

You finally opened the comments! Yay and then some!

In unrelated news, I was wooed to the sound of Miles Davis - the very first thing he ever played for me was off that album.

9:41 AM  

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