My sister was kind enough to bring to my attention the offense of referring to someone as a “cute little number.” Somewhere in this raging sea of academics I became torn from the harbor of manners and cast into the black foam of crass man-isms. I forgot I signed on long ago as member of “People for the Ethical Treatment of People.” I’ve forgotten what it’s like to actually be a person of feelings and emotion.
Jazz piano virtuoso Keith Jarrett brought me out of the surf momentarily. I listened to 30 seconds of his live solo album and was astounded. Completely lacking in-
-pretentions, every second was an infinitely dense affirmation of the human spirit. Keith didn’t play any notes. He tilted his head so the idea would run down his arms into his fingers and plunk the keyboard in the perfect place.
If I had the energy right now my knuckles would be white with frustration. I don’t want to be at my computer. I don’t want to be writing for Cromlech. I don’t want to be doing homework. I don’t want to be in any place that reminds me of higher learning.
I want my soul back.