I've been putting off writing about last weekend; perhaps because I've written so much about it already, or perhaps because it was of such ineffable nature it is defying my petty words. In any case, here is a bit of what touched me, a mere nine pages ago;
bluesy rhythms dictate the tapping of shiny black shoes, as a soulful, half-smiling, saxophonist works his charm; "I'm getting sentimental over you". Likely, the song is working in reverse for most of his audience, and I smile as I snatch glimpses of others' reactions: Charlene with rain-boots crossed, fingers laced and a wistful look in her eyes; Andy with his fingers interwoven to rest his strong chin on as his broad shoulders prohibit anyone too big from claiming the seat next to him. Two older ladies sit on my left; one had been here reading before we ever entered the doors with sax and stand, speakers and (somewhere) sheet music. Her reading had disappeared to be replaced with the unanimous listening ear, attentive eyes, and tapping feet.
eyelashes that cast shadows on his cheekbones; dressed like an emperor penguin in blacks and whites. The slight bend of his knees reflect the impassioned tilts of his head, climbing up and down scales like the Tracy's precarious ladder as he retrieved the skis, but an hour earlier. "Foolish Heart"." Are all saxophone songs sensuous? I can see the flow of air increase through his cheeks as the music swells to mezzaforte. He would close his eyes and enlist his heart to play tunes through tumultuous times. A magenta wall is his backdrop, dusty peach blossom ones close us in as breathy saxophone sounds surround us.
I know, I know that's enough description, and plenty of adjectives to feed an army - but the moment so swept me up. Maybe that's all I can share right now.
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