Monday Night Jazz...

I am sore waking up from it...  Finally, waking at one, I give the body another half an hour before dragging up out of bed.

By two in the afternoon I am having my first cups of tea.  I guess I slept okay.  At least I wasn't bothered by too much noise or phone calls.  The muscles are stiff, the soles of the feet tight...


It shouldn't be like this, he says to himself.  Three very busy nights, lots of movement, circling around the dining room like a hunter.  He puts the dishes to soak, after climbing down the stairs to see if the shipment of green tea has arrived, nope, so he makes due with two bags of Twinings and a teaspoon of Matcha.

The bar crowd stays around, so the conversation goes on, and on.  Requiring thought and wit and improvisation.   Answering some questions offered by curious customers.  The boss sits with his wife and a friend of his wife's, squeezed in at the bar.  They sit just as the bar glassware washer machine emits the groan, announcing something has prevented the closing of the seal that holds the water, so you have to take out the rack, then reach in, on your knees, look at the mesh enclosure surrounding the plugging mechanism...

Why did you turn the light off, the one overhead the cutting board on top of the stove in the back corner of the bar, the ladies ask...  Well, it's just that sometimes I like it on, and sometimes I like it off, I shrug, demurely.  Just the mood.  No way of predicting it.  Then in a moment I explain sometimes the boss asks me to turn it off, for ambiance.  "I'm thinking of those customers out there, who don't want the glare as they dine..."  Lots of explanations for things.  Who knows.  But the ladies, one a songwriter, on top of being a lawyer and a Ph.D. in comparative lit, and the more erect one with a Burberry's scarf on, get the humor.


At the end of the night, Drew comes by, with a great story of real estate and zoning...  I finally get my dish of chicken curry, kept hot in the oven, and sit down.   Then I cannot resist the bread.   Goddamn bread, making my belly grow, a depth charge of weight gains.   Barbara joins the bar after the last kibitzing, encouraging me to get the guitar out before she goes.  At the end, from the safety of her home, she texts me that "You're Good."  Which sits in my mind as I waver in and out of sleep.  What a job...  You pay the rent, but who has the energy to go try and new job when they work you like that...


And on top of that, as if you weren't feeling guilty enough about opportunity and talents and how you should've kept taking French...  got a job where you wore a blazer at work... there's your old mom, up far away in the grey winter of Oswego...  A feeling of some helplessness...

Before the shower, a successful call to mom...  as stew heats up in the toaster oven...



How did it work, back in Jesus's day, this talent stuff...  Were there musician recording artists, and movie actors, and polished diplomats...

Were talents put into use being a study in human nature, its inherent goodness...

With people, back then, in an unselfish mode, moral codes were instituted, so that the sweetness of people would not be taken advantage of, that the anarchy of selfishness would not seize the day, with money, comfort, power, sex and intrigue, the pleasures of gambling and so forth.

And so with Jesus, so finely tuned to the wonderful talents of humanity, a sensitive eye is turned to bring fresh life and vigor to old commandment....