Wes’ Smiling Moustachioed Face

Who was Wes Montgomery?  I seem to recall his octave sliding style wasn’t always meant to be as he couldn’t read music and yet listening, he taught himself to play in a way no one else ever had.  He’s on the mix this week.  Last week.  In the days when we used to buy music I purchased or inherited many of his albums.  I later bought tapes and my share of Wes Montgomery CDs.  I reckon I’ve paid enough of the admission-fee to enjoy his music, at this point in my life.  Besides, Wes had died from a heart attack in 1968, when I was only two.  He never got a penny of my lawn-mowing money.

Youtube anticipates my likes and dislikes and serves me up a photo of Wes’ smiling moustachioed face on “Wes and Friends” (Full Album) from 1961. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwolbB7IIIE&t=3372s  It’s uncanny but he looks just like a dear friend from college in this photo.  This pal evoked is not an African American, nor does he pose with guitar necks and neck ties.  But that smile.  It’s him.  Why?  It won’t leave me alone.  I cut and paste the link to the album and send it to three friends for commentary.  No one says anything meaningful.  It’s clearly my problem. I choose not to send it to the friend in question.  I suspect this is the right thing to do.  Just listen to the album.  There’s a conga player on this date, I imagine feet moving to his skin slaps.  It blends nicely and forces the pianist, George Shearing to cut off on unexpected angles.  My work is now frictionless.

Someone writes overnight.  They want to quit from a project.  They can’t get along with someone else.   I speak to the someone else.  He has a point.  She has a point.  I listen and with an unerring eye locked on the need for a harmonious resolution, I apply salve and nudge everyone back on to the team.  I will be a bare-knuckled used car salesman in the pursuit of harmony.  This I can do. 

I am resolved.  Today, a nap.  Not another pint of thicker-than-thou coffee.  I’m treated to dreams of things I’m not supposed to do.  I eat chicken dumplings.  What the hell is a chicken dumpling?  Chinese don’t make chicken dumplings.  But I’m offered one and I eat it in my dream even though I know in my dream-reality that I wasn’t supposed to be eating meat.  Who is this woman in my dream who is many people and no one I know at one in the same time?  She smiles just so, and I melt, confused, she melts.  I am awake.  Sleep’s long nailed fingers still hold my shoulders and my temples and I tell myself that this was better than coffee.  But it feels like the morning’s molasses, all over again. 

Thursday, 03/22/18