12.30 am. The start of a new day, the end of an old, the hinge on which the door swings between late and early and late and early...
I'm reading But Beautiful by Geoff Dyer. A series of vignettes, snapshots, episodes in the lives of jazz greats like Lester Young and Thelonious Monk. It waxes lyrically, sadly; small, still moments tinged with isolation and brooding; beautiful statues lying smashed on a rained-out sidewalk, utterly destroyed yet still beautiful in their desolation and anihilation.
Take this long moment of a performance by Bud Powell:
Touched the keys a few times, squared yourself and plunged into "Nice Work", not pausing to think your way through what you were going to play, everything happening instantly. Your fingers moved like you had played Gershwin's tune ever since you were a baby and could take it anywhere you wanted...And then, like the tightrope walker wobbling, the first hint of uncertainty, hesitating over a note, faltering, recovering your balance then hesitating again... Then stumbling, your hands becoming tangled up in each other...
...then hitting a few notes but losing it, drowning in the tune like it was an ocean swallowing you up... Then then then. Then there was no point even touching the keyboard...
...as they applauded, everyone in the audience, everyone, understood that there must surely be something terrible about a form of music that can wreak such havoc on a man. It was like watching a gymnast and taking such agility and strength for granted until there was a fraction of an error and he crashed to the floor. It was only then that you realized how ordinary the barely possible had been made to appear -- and it is the crash rather than the perfect somersaults that expresses the truth.
You read, and the sounds and lights in your apartment fade away. Things dissolve. You are suspended in space.
But Beautiful, indeed.