I don’t know how many times I’ve caught myself listening to Kind of Blue at 11:30 at night waiting impatiently, eager for the arrival of a brilliant thought like an impatient child. I stare at the blinds covering my window hoping that there is some type of divine message scrawled in the plastic slats. I stare at the electric green numbers of the clock as they stare back at me with that futile neon expression. I wish that I could pull my true self out by the hair on the top of my head, screaming and wailing like a banshee; I want to find out about brutal honesty. I want it to come rolling off of the tip of my own tongue honest and unbridled by opinions. I’ve enslaved myself to the devil on my shoulder. I keep trying to pull on the strings that will allow me to speak honestly, beautifully. And yet, the only thing that I have coming out are trite sentences like a pull string on the back of a plastic doll, hackneyed ideas vomiting from my mouth. I guess the one thing that is comforting about this situation is the sound of jazz at midnight. It’s the thing I have to look forward to like a home cooked meal, a familiar comfort, in the early hours of the morning.
