Thelonious looks at me as if he hears what I think, he puffs and says: “If you ask me, create the way you think you should. Don’t do what the audience expects. Play what you want, and let the audience get involved in what you do – even if the audience needs fifteen, twenty years for such a thing.”
I want Sonny Rollins to also appear at the terrace. Maybe I say such a thing, which makes no difference to Thelonious. Their joint performances and ancient flame made me wish for the impossible. My tongue is heavy and disobedient. It has developed its own algorithms, the secrets that it resolves are sweeter and sweeter.
I have nevertheless given you up. It’s not fun anymore. I feel stripped and liberating for the first time. The oral muses have set the boundaries. We grew out of the boundaries. I hope that I would know to return sometimes and that I would not forget. The concept of yearning does not suit me anymore, and I will never succeed in what is expected from me. It is time to disappear and it smells like changes. The truth is old and clear enough, it shines like corners of our awareness, from the time when we invented passages and roads rather than walls. Where there used to be a street.