Brain Exercise

I have not written anything of significance.  I like a few things that I once wrote.  I read them and words come to my mind like talent, forgone, rationality.  In that order sometimes - as in this case.  Even now, as I try to write about my (lack of) writing, I can't hold the words long enough to get them down.

Ok. Freewriting.

Music.  Miles Davis.  Buh badabububada.  Squeaking and squealing like worn breaks, but with so much air.  He speaks to me in manic spasms.  And as the song moves along, I recognize that it's not that there is no form, no rhythm, or no melody, but that to understand and embrace the music, you have to show it some respect and pay attention!  Relax, as the bassist walks you down the damp, florescent street, tapping your hands on your pants - impersonating the pianist.  Then turn suddenly down an alley where Miles wants you to meet an ominous cloaked figure.  But on further inspection, you realize it's a familiar woman in an ankle-length mink coat.  She curls her finger, beckoning you near and as she links her arm with yours, your chest puffs.  Continuing down the alley, the music stops as the two of you look back at Miles, your lips drawing up as if to say, "I'll see you at breakfast."

-RKM