Another week has come and gone and here we are on Saturday night, and I have no review to share with you.
It is pretty obvious to me (and to you as well, I am sure) that, no matter how much I tell myself (or you) otherwise, at this point in my life my mind is no longer into writing about jazz.
This might be a result of the ongoing effects of my Sleep Apnea. The last couple of days have been rough because I have foolishly stayed up too late and then gotten up too early the next morning.
Putting that aside, I believe I am presently dealing with the Sleep Apnea better overall than at any other time since my diagnosis. Most days I am feeling much better than when I was working, and the days where I do not need a nap in the afternoon now outnumber the days when I do.
Despite that, I am pretty sure I will still need a CPAP machine, but that is going to have to wait until after the first of the year.
My lack of interest in writing about jazz at present also could be from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), even though I am beyond the age group normally affected by this.
Or it could just be that I am simply tired of writing about jazz and want to move on to other things. I still love listening to jazz, and in point of fact I have Sonny Rollins’ great vinyl classic “Saxophone Colossus And More” playing right now.
This has been a year of change, for me personally and for our country. I had the rest of my life planned out, or at least the rest of my working life. Then suddenly those plans were gone in a puff of smoke, changed forever by something unforeseen and beyond my control, but which nonetheless triggered a series of events that dashed my hopes for the future.
Re-reading what I just wrote, I have to admit that “dashed” may be too strong a word. I am leaning more toward “temporarily derailed,” but only time will tell whether that train will get back on track or not.
And don’t even get me started on that farce of an election. We thought a monkey took over the presidency when “Dubya” walked into the Oval Office in January of 2001. Now we have the monkey’s uncle. An older, more than slightly disreputable uncle who, like every used car salesman who ever lived, never answers a question the same way twice.
For whatever reason, writing about jazz apparently no longer floats my boat the way it once did. That is indisputable. Whether or not it ever again will is an open question that won’t be answered tonight.
I feel an obligation to write something, if for no other reason than I have three new releases sitting on my desk that part of me wants very much to share with you. My sense of right and wrong won’t let me go forever without writing about these fine albums, but I am afraid that, too, won’t be happening tonight.
Thanks for reading this.
Wood Village, Oregon
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