I was thinking yesterday, during one of my headaches, as I sat in the Kino Luna, which happens to be across from the Ministry of Coffee, a place not at all renowned for my frequent patronage, or idle worship smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee cold brew, next to bottled water, next to oat milk with espresso, observing the idol worshipers enter in and out of the Church of the Holy Savior, which overlooks the roundabout slightly to north of both the Western Cafe, and the Eastern cinema,
As I sat in that cinema, head pounding, Every sound, every movement, every smell intensifying the vein dilating, That one on the right side of my forehead, & Miles Davis came on the screen, Isn’t that what I came for? To watch a documentary about a Black man who, Changed the musical landscape of America and beyond, as he changed with the times too? Isn’t that why I came? To learn about this person who I knew so little about consciously, Yet who had in so many ways affected me, and you, and everyone we don’t know? And the thought passed through my mind,
One day I will have the courage, to have a brain aneurysm. And I began to laugh to myself. And concurrently I knew this was offensive, And laughing to myself knew that I shouldn’t write about it, Just as I should have pretended to know who the fuck Miles Davis was, At least tangentially, a 32 year old caricature of hipsterdom like myself, We should at least make the effort, with Wikipedia? Netflix keeps releasing documentaries about dead Black musicians, some of them, Happen to still be alive, which is good, they need to be celebrated, But I have a feeling that there is something about this that is a type of, a kind of Hipster Remedial, Education, yet I would never say that out loud. In public. Much less write about, Just as I would never dare expatiate, muse or otherwise hold forth about, write, at length about, pontificate about, discourse on, expound, go into detail about, go on about,
How one of these days, I will find the courage to have a brain aneurysm.