I was cleaning things in the garage the other day. Getting rid of things, organizing. You walked in, huge now, about as tall as me. Your hair style, your pants, they all matter to you now. You were looking cool before heading out to meet your friends.

I’ve been rewatching the Ken Burns jazz documentary. It’s hands-down one of the best things I’ve ever watched. Not in form per se, but in subject. While it’s about jazz on the surface, it’s really a showcase of the capacity of soul and the presence of higher places.

Davis found himself at some unknown house. In a cloudy, verdant setting down by a river. He was in a dingy kitchen, mostly white and faded blacks, with three kids.

The 1970s were a good sad. As far as goodness in sadness goes.

I think about crickets.

I think of how long their songs have played in the background of history.

Reason Alone

cannot tell us how elephants find their way,