Our local public radio station plays a program Saturday nights, “Jazz All Night.” The jazz rolls from Saturday night into Sunday morning. I think about that jazz being really Saturday-nightish jazzy when people listen to it before going to sleep in the party kind of atmosphere of Saturday and the jazz lasting even after they go to bed, and being there on Sunday mornings, sounding somehow different in the Sunday-morningness of it. I wonder at what point other than midnight Saturday night turns into Sunday morning, what psychological point. Maybe it depends on the person and the rhythm of their routine, that the filter isn’t just the collective night/day transition but also filtered by the person and that rhythm of their routine.
Little slices of heaven all around, like Kris Kristofferson singing “Help Me Make It Through The Night.”
Little slices of heaven all around if you allow yourself them, like realizing that your arms are the arms of a woman, a woman still youngish but mature. A woman in her forties with a certain patina of skin, texture, articulations of veins in her hands. That being a woman in her forties is a kind of glamour. Glamour. You can even wear a bracelet if she likes.
Ways of being, little slices of heaven all around if you allow yourself them. It’s not consumption–it’s more like you allow yourself to marinate in them, to steep. Like you let yourself be in that moment, sure sure. Turning on enough light to see well, bringing out all the ingredients, your husband sitting at the table watching you cut the ingredients on the table, the table maybe 70 years old and rickety. Your cat companion wandering pensively between the legs of the table, you and your husband and then softly into the shadow of her not-so-secret hiding place, the cupboard, pearing out from the soft and she’s feeling so secure, knowing her humans making warm noises, that they are being fed and that they like each other and that they let themselves relax. Sometimes, sometimes.