[M@KP] Miles Davis .:. All Blues

Click to listen to “All Blues”

Artist: Miles Davis

Album: Kind of Blue ( 1959 )

Roaming down the blue Kitchener streets with strands of midnight jazz blowing in the cool breeze. How the clouds cascade across the moon remind me of lover’s silhouettes behind a white silk curtain. I think as I approach the canal that I could go for a cigarette, or a cigar, a nice fat one with an accompanying glass of scotch on the rocks, maybe a vinyl of Kind of Blue. I wouldn’t share any of it, either.

Iris says to me in a text message that “tonight is a night to reject all forms of death.” I resolve transience, aimless wander for however long – fucked if I have anywhere to be. My household doesn’t wait up for me. It’s wise; I wouldn’t wait up for me either, and if I did I don’t know how happy I would be to see my stoned drunk face walk on through the door, grinning like a gesture or skulking like a cat, so to not disturb anyone (pretending that I can slam the door without waking anyone, see).

Wander leads me through all of the back streets, all of the side streets, all of the empty streets, the cemetery streets to the cemetery beats. The blues blasts in my earphones sound like they’re from high in the sky.

Iris says to me in another text message that “soon home will be wherever I hang my hat.” I think about home. It makes me think of stretching out real good across my bed, elongating my body until I hear a few good cracks, then just releasing all of the tension down into the mattress. This likely has something to do with the thousands of hours I’ve spent upright, watching this godforsaken continent roll past on Greyhound busses. One can’t be at home on a bus, nor can one be stretched out, or comfortable in any sense of the word.

I respond: “home is where I can comfortably stretch out.”

Down across the tracks I kick my legs out carelessly and stride with a cool swagger, moonlight’s dagger. A large woman turns the corner and stops, smiling at me. “Hi. How are you tonight?” Fine diamond cigarettes, smooth-like-liquid smoke, a phrase with soul slow licking the ear drum, chocolate, caramel and cream sensations. “I’m pretty good. And you?” She says she good and keeps walking.

Some people are weird after dark.