The West End

I started it this morning like a devotional. UP at my usual.. 4:15 but awake earlier, rehearsing the score that lay waiting for my piano. I lay in the same position until I've memorized the idea. It's quiet for the moment. I dress in the light and leave a woman you don't know still sleeping. It's cold in the room. I hear her breathing. I feel in the dark. Her shoulders are covered and warm.

Downtown Nashville hops up early and the cars hurry down there along the West End. See my view from my studio. I beat them here. The piano couldn't wait any longer.

If I close my eyes I can imagine them in waves on the shore. It's the coming tide. Traffic. 5 now. I've recorded the morning dew and laid down the idea plainly. It won't escape me now.

Light peaks in. I don't need coffee. I just like it. I sit warm, let the score marinate, and settle in to a plaid silk reading chair. One soft lamp creaks as I twist on the ritual that sets my mind to focus.. another essay from Sharif Abdurraqib. A style of language I struggle to tack together but so dearly love imagining it rolling off the tongue of a man I feel like I know. "They can't kill us until they kill us" and his voice spreads broad over my morning, and pushes me along to more coffee and exercise and the essence of a juxtaposition and an imagination; my fingers at the piano and what joy and worship will fill and be my day of many right and then many more good left turns.

jP 2o18 D17