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  • R. Gurley

A Taste Acquired

I didn’t listen to jazz when I last lived in this desert place. Its taste picked up somewhere along the road, a moment in time suspended in morning daydreams in some café; coffee and a chocolate cookie and in the background a tune I would later learn was Davis’ Blue in Green. Coffee, cookie, morning, music, tasting all the moments’ ingredients, the bitter of the coffee mixed with something sweet. The brown sugar, the butter, the chocolate. I could decipher each out with the song that moved something in me, a clarity. The moment I came to understand jazz.

Jazz, there’s no words for it; a crime to tie it down like that. Jazz chose me and I have chosen it ever since.



The teapot whistles. I press the play button on an iPad. The silence interrupted by the first note, so slow. I look off in the distance. Blue in green meets the reds and oranges of desert morning skies. The sun will rise. I t will also set, but for now, I savor its ingredients, decipher them out. Jazz, I get it now, a taste acquired.

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