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Everybody who tells you how to act has whisky on their breath.
Then these melodies turn to ice as real night music takes over, pianos and vibes erecting clusters in the high brittle octaves and a clarinet wandering across like a crack on a pond. Saxes doing the same figure eight over and over again.
Horace loved those salmon colors so; I’d say to him, ‘If I want red, give me red; a fat red rose. And if I want white, give me white, a tall white lily; and don’t bother me with all these in-betweens and would-be-pinks and almost-purples that don’t know what their mind is. Rhody’s a mealymouthed plant,’ I’d say to Horace, ‘she does have a brain, so she gives you some of everything,’
“If you have the guts to be yourself,” he says, “other people’ll pay your price.”
“Yes, well, years. Some die young; some are born old.”
“Is it? It’s what they keep telling you in church. Men are all heart and women are all body. I don’t know who’s supposed to have the brains. God, I suppose.”
