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Twenty Three: Sad Baritone Saturday February 9, 2014

Posted by The Typist in The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Cheating: it’s a busy day so unearthing an old favorite piece.

A sad baritone blowing big round Jello-tremulous Os of the blues.

That’s what started this ramble into a pleasant melancholia      a fizzing afternoon beer buzz of sadness not quite cheerless, simply there like a color in the air a sky so blue and clear you can hear it, a faint hum beneath your fee t    a Fall afternoon so perfectly empty you just want to lay down in the arms of some big oak and root, thinking:  well, if the world is going to caterwaul in a crashing train wreck, I guess I’m not busy today. Go ahead. I voted early.

And then you remember the Indians, stuffed into the lobby of the museum. So you go and the colors aren’t quite right all that expanse of white marble flattening the chromatic feather colors into something cartoonish, stealing the scene’s perspective like some VCR on endless loop, alone in a neutral cream room of neatly labeled artifacts under glass instead of    the slow approach up a street lined with long, low rows of shotguns and maybe a catercorner store.

First just a spyboy peering around the black chalkboard brightly proclaiming Hot Breakfast and Cold Beer, then     a hammering of tambourines in the distance and then you spot them, turning a corner:     bright-beaded bird creatures from a dream, singing in a language they have made themselves.

That’s when you decide:  No, thank you I want to slap the snooze button on that doom clock your time doesn’t apply to us down here we’re on Central River Time and things     things are just a bit slower and we’re not quite ready for all your rapturous end times of votes and riots. We’re all in pawn up to the brim of our sharp fur felt hats so here’s a quarter: call in all your tall Wall Street stories to someone else.

If you’re going to destroy your world try to keep it down to a manageable rumble in the distance, please, perhaps a smudge of smoke on the horizon like a marsh fire and leave us to ourselves     to the scat-o-logical chantings of Fi-Yi-Yi to mad tambourine time     the bright side of the poverty and sadness you turn into columns and hours of politics and we turn into     a sad baritone sax blowing big round Jello-tremulous Os     measuring the girth of the blues just about city sized and right for us, thanks.

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