A lump in my throat clenches like a fist and I'm choking down tears as I realize I've lost my one and only ticket to the International Jazz Fest and all I can think is, 'Why? Why is this happening to ME!' I seriously consider laying down in the lobby and throwing in the towel on this sad circus of a life but manage to mutter something about wishing I was a French clown. It comes out mumbled because my teeth are clinched.
Gatsby wrote about the jazz age. I write about Western mans need to cry. Either way, there was no one there to play Daisy to my Gatsby and East egg glowed luminous pink on the other side of the blue shadowed ticket lady.
In a stroke of brillance I took a chance. Throwing my hands majestically into the air and whispering a spell in her direction, I half walked, half waltzed, altogether floated right past her, my chin raised a few clicks. Lady luck must have kissed my brow as a child, because not an eye brow was raised and I was in the show. Luck of the Irish.
Really, no one else gets away with this stuff.
**
The show was great. A colorful set full of rearranged gospel hymns for a jazz trio. I had to smile: American ears taking in Irish diminished sevenths somewhere in Germany.
As I left, a curious green light pulsed in the distance and I realized East Egg, like Vienna, will always wait. Afterall, it's not a place; it's a state of mind.
1 comment:
Sounds like a good show. Couldn't get the slideshow pics to work though.
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