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Tuesday, January 14, 2014

The #Groove. By John von Daler

                     Find the groove. Stay there, a jazz musician will tell you. Do not count. Do not even think. Stay down in your comfortable trough and enjoy the pulse.
                Easy enough, you say. But how often do you find a groove?

                An #Oklahoma summer evening. About seven o'clock. It's warm, but not hot. Crickets have launched into a great metallic chorus. The terrible fiery sun inches towards the elusive horizon, like some invincible champion ambling over to his corner to catch his breath before the next round.
                The little street, 42nd place in #Tulsa, is all quiet, its cars all parked, lawns all mowed, families all fed, sprinklers all turned on.
                On the black pavement six or seven bicycles whirl in and out, the small riders squirming from one impossible position to another: bare feet on the saddle, hands on the bars, butts in the air. Feet on the handlebars, butts on the saddle, wheels gliding. Backs to the front, heads down, right arms stretched backwards, holding the bars shakily in place.
                Three boys and four girls are trading bicycle tricks. One of the girls has short blond hair, short jeans and a halter. On her bare feet the toenails are painted red. You cannot help looking at them every time she passes by. You manage to forget her after every pass, but the toenails flag you down each time on the way back. Zig, zag, circle, straight, accelerate, brake. She smiles.
                You climb onto the back of the bike on your bare feet while you hold the bars steady with your hands. As she passes the next time you notice how the wind blows her bangs equally to each side of her forhead. You raise one leg in passing and point your toes at the stars. She sees it and quickly mimics the gesture. You both stand still like planets whose long forgotten spurts of light now dazzle and delight just in this moment of now. There it is, the groove, but it disappears again soon, elusively in the quiet prairie dusk.  It was there for a moment, but what about now?               
                Now you and she are old and you never even kissed her, not even once. That is like being in the groove but forgetting to play the music.




                

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