The wash of jazz over the brain as I pull my car into a spot in the parking lot, looking for that next heady cup of coffee – full of steamy, dark, rich goodness and life. We came close to finding the perfect percolator this past weekend...close but no cigar...so it will be some fast, cheap drip-style brew again today. Where, oh where could that perfect percolator be? Call out to me, you stainless-steel holy grail...I am your Galahad, seeking you...seeking you.
The grey clouds over the praire look down at me the same way an old, pilly sweater looks with contempt at the shirt it covers. “Be quiet, you button-down devil that speaks only of another decade, another time, another set of marinara stains that I'm forced to cover,” speaks that sweater to that shirt; “go home and sleep or else make something of yourself,” speak those clouds to me. The wash of jazz stops cold in the touch of a button, the turn of a key. The clouds get closer; I seek out that coffee. It is hot and burns the tongue, filling the mouth with an acrid wash...acrid wash...acrid wash. Wash of jazz, wash of jazz. It's all about wash today. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow, purify me and I shall be made clean. Vince Guaraldi in my car gives way to Dave Brubeck in my head and I cozy up to this typewriter that they call a netbook. I once cozied up to a pen that they called a typewriter, and the same damned wash came out.
Over and over, over and over. It feels so right, feels so good. Who was it that said that line “a million burning suns”? Did I read it? Dream it? Write it myself? Plagiarize it? Over and over the words come from deep inside and the wash wash wash feels good. Wash. “The most beautiful sounding word in the English language,” I once said about that word, and I said it over and over. You can have your cellar door – I have the wash.
Another cup of coffee. Stand. Stretch. Get to work.
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