It's a Billie Holiday kind of evening. There's nothin' like coming home, relaxing to some bluesy jazz music, sipping on a sweet-ish red, and perusing the newest edition of The New Yorker. This is a Gatsby lifestyle, friends.
I love being completely immersed in and embraced by the glamorous sadness of the sound- the sexy confidence of the bass, the airy pulse and brush of the high-hat, the winking subtlety of the piano, the flirty trumpet, maybe a slip of the clarinet, and the melting whisper of Lady Day's voice or Ella Fitzgerald's or Diana Krall's or Lena Horne's, or any of the others, tragedy and all.
Yes, tonight I've got the world on a string... and whatever your dreams may be, dream a little dream of me...It's the nearness of you... You haunt me...Darling, save your love for me...I've got it bad and that ain't good.
The candle lit bubble bath is inevitable.
2 comments:
I feel like a jackass for forgetting Rosemary Clooney. God, yes... and Rosemary Clooney.
I feel like the New Yorker is tracking my Zeitgeist lately. Did you see the big feature on C-sections? And followed by the issue with the Lagos article? As a researcher focussing on medical interventions in maternal and child health in development, this is getting spooky!
But, yes. Love your jazzy mood.
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