I like jazz. I like the swing. My heart don’t swing though, not today anyway. My heart don’t beat in doggo: in some kind of beat, solid time that is rough going, against the current, against the office window jazz to my right with the blue sky and the gray with the white, white puffs that look like mashed potatoes (I think of others who dig the mash like I do who sees it like I sees it in the sense that the simplest things can be and often are the most decadent like black beans right out of the pan or noodles with butter and nothin’ but). This thought relaxes me a bit.

Kind of Blue rolls over my skull like the list in the 1979 film ‘Don Giovanni’ roles out over the lawn as Leperello sing-splains to Donna Elvira all the women Don Giovanni had been with and how awful – just how awful it was he abandoned you, Donna Elvira, but you should definitely drop that love – it’s such a long list I mean look at it roll and it’s still rolling(!) infinite, look at the way it escapes the eye, Donna Elvira. Jazz as a forever lover, cheating on everyone, ha! It seems I’m a bit out of whack today because ‘So What’ does what it always does with the tingle the weight the smoothing like water but my heart still won’t have it like it craves a massage or something so I think about how that would look and the painful, true-to-the-name knots in there… Disturbed even further, I really feel the blood going in and out of my heart pump pump pump spasmodically and I think how, actually, I control it and that thought adds to the solid beat anxious because what if it stops and I don’t actually know how to start it, regulate it because it’s never been easy I just never had to think about it—–

Thump against flow. Thump against sternum. Steady thump, no swing.

Co-worker pops out to get a cup of water which means I have a few seconds to myself. I take 1mg of lorazepam, an anti-anxiety medication. Prescribed. I wait. Sometimes the act of taking the pill makes me anxious, too, but not this time. Kind of Blue keeps on strollin’ through my park with the car horn jazz outside. Bill Evans is forever after my heart or I’m forever after his – I can’t decide. ‘All Blues’ makes me think about my own fingers on the 88 keys and I feel the why-haven’t-you-been-and-why-aren’t-you-right-now-practicing pin prick on the back of my neck where the hairs raise like the eyebrows of Leonardo DiCaprio acting a scene in which he’s supposed to be distressed but still kinda in control – that look he gets in all the movies he’s been in (except maybe ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’) – I HEAR the church they recorded in: the brass instruments tickle the space up my brain crawling the walls spitting back all the while I can see 100 foot high ceilings and I see them playin’ playin’ playin’ like they doobopadoodoo do.

My anxiety, clever little beast, must’ve migrated  to the part of my brain I think still unaffected by “anti-anxiety” pills. What a tricky concept that is, just by nomer: “Anti-Anxiety”. What if I run out of pills and I haven’t had the time to refill them (commonplace) so they have effectively made me more anxious and every time I get them I worry I’ll run out again so I try and make another purchase but the pharmacist says that’ll cost extra so I get anxious about my state of affairs and I leave white-fisted (little pops of pink-red) shaking deeper than my omnipresent tremor looking up my bank statement on my phone breathing and sweating like Christian Bale in that scene in ‘American Psycho’ where he kills a WHOLE bunch of people, running around in the wrong lobbies killing janitors and doormen and strangers in the wrong place wrong time and when he finally gets to his building, his office, sweating sweating sweating he, in a wave of relief, calls his lawyer and I’m breathing those choked up little breaths between murder confessions and how he ate some brains and tried to cook a little too – my how he sweats in that scene – but I didn’t kill anyone and I didn’t cook brains but I feel like I did and the consequence tidal wave is so big and blue it looks like the sky but I know that’s not the kind of blue it’s supposed to be; there is something to this kind of blue that blocks out the sun.

I can’t shake the pathumpatump – like – it shakes me, ragdoll me in the hand of a barely omniscient little-god man crawling on all fours towards his bigger-god momma, crushing me every time he puts his little-god hand on the ground – closer and closer to his god-momma who’s gonna tidy me up so I can play again after the little-god man has had his little-god man nap.

Then the lorazepam kicks in and the anxiety-god-people are gone. The sun feels more like a blanket than a clothing iron and it’s all just a bit slower.