Moment of Calm
After a patch of radiant weather, things have turned cold and wet. I talk to Kathleen, who is visiting her parents in Durham, North Carolina, and she tells me of a thunderstorm. Then my voice lulls her back to sleep; I worry that she's going to drop the phone without hanging up. It feels like Sunday, but, no, we're not halfway through the weekend. There's some ironing to do, a movie to finish (I fell asleep before it ended), and of course the Book Review to review. There is James Wood's The Broken Estate to find; I know it's in here somewhere.
Yesterday, while vacuuming the living room, I accidentally turned on the carousel that holds copies of jazz CDs (very loosely defined) and was surprised to hear Abbie Lincoln singing "Stampede of Love." I turned the sound down a bit, but just a bit, to slightly above "live" level, and continued cleaning. Later, I let the music continue, very much not in the background, as I dined on a dish of pasta. I sat at the table for a while when I was through, listening to the songs in random order. I was not reading. Must do this more often: it was almost meditative. The secret seems to lie in playing the music loud enough to hold my attention.
