June 18th, 2005
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A rainy saturday morning I sit on the porch in my pyjamas. I have the thought that I should get dressed and then decide against it giving myself the treat of idleness. Idle attire. That is what saturday mornings are for, particularly rainy ones. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice wafts through the open door of the house and I am thinking that this is the best way to listen to jazz music. Sitting outside smelling the rain smells, and hearing it move through the house, around tables and chairs, through doorways and out into the rain. It feels secondhand, antique, the way an old stereo system sounds as it plays a record. Like an echo. Old houses were meant to hold jazz music, they were meant to have it move through them, shifting the thick wooden beams that hold it together. It is what keeps them alive, stops them from falling to the ground. This old house lives for it. It always feels happier with music from the 20′s and 30′s.
I watch as a hummingbird with an irridescent green head and bright flourescent orange cheeks drinks from the red blooms of a flowering shrub. It is a mere three and a half feet from me. I sit stiffly staring at it for several minutes, so rare to see them this close up. They are like large bees, wings making noticable buzzing sounds. How lucky i feel.

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