binkymcqueen

It is the sort of Fall Friday where anything in the world seems possible and right; by extension, of the wonderful transformation permeating through the air, soil, clouds, and buildings. I walked the lovely Bella to work and stayed for coffee so all could get their little man fill; again, I am reminded just how easy it is for our kids to grow up with such big heads and swelled egos. Everywhere we go love clings to them like the static manna from the heavens; it humbles me greatly to think of the extreme ways in which children instill that magic feeling that so many adults chase without ever uttering more then a peep. The autumn is a season ripe for all things Swayne: jazz, coffee at all hours of the day, rippling earth tones, sweaters, and good books. I went to the library this morning on the way back with little guybecause get this: If you are poor you can go to the free library and get shit to read, watch, or listen to. Shocking how futuristic our world is these days huh? So I had already formulated my ideal trip to the library (a branch I have not visited-though it is closer to our house) my first disappointment came when yet another branch (The one in Italian market no less) has not one slender volume of Italo Calvino-Italys finest export since Leonardo. I could probably write a very crippling and caustic travel book on libraries across America who fail to stock some of the most important writers of anytime-let alone the supposed post-modern ubermeterosexualhipster world; however, it is to no avail and havent the heart to argue with the world any longer for the above mentioned children offer the worlds biggest diversion into complete avoidance of the rest of civilization except through media outlets of ones choice. So I moved on-picked up a taught and concise biography of Leonardo da Vinci; because I have a copy of both of his notebooks, sitting in a frigid storage cube 1500 miles away and I awoke with a picture of his in my head. I also had been hungering to finish volume 2 of the Sherlock Holmes stories-which 3 years ago I abandoned in haste in my effort to fall faster, madder, and deeper in love with my muse. I also found a terrific 70s version of a book on Coltrane which consists of quotes by everyone who played with or grew up with him. Which me and the boy have found quite exhilarating thus far on our Friday afternoonthough Charles Mingus has bullied Coltrane back down the list on the mp3 mix playing in the kitchen as we sit. I came across this bit of conversation on Coltrane from the otherworldly Rashan Roland Kirk:

Coltrane and I used to get together and talk about mouthpieces and reeds and music. One night we were down in the Village listening to Max Roach, and John talked about how he felt up against a wall in his music because a lot of the musicians had told him that what he was doing wasnt hip enough. Talk like that used to give john a bad case of the blues.

That sums up the ultimate irony in life to me, the very idea that Coltrane, man above peer in terms of the history and the pure art of jazz; was just like all of usa frail and complex emotional dependent soul just trying to blend both the artistic side of our selves with what the world demands. Its Friday peopleslow down and look at the leaves, hum a little made up music-these beautiful micro-seconds are like the magnetism of a babygenuine, pure, and soundless in their wisdom and glory.