Indian Summer

One of those Bukowski horseracing afternoons, silent, peaceful, warm. Literally.

Cuban tunes are filling the air, Aquellos Ojos Verdes, Dos Gardenias, Chan Chan, you name it. El Social Club de Buenavista! Compay Segundo warms my heart, I feel relaxed, fine. I am sitting at the balcony watching a horsewoman reluctantly circling the neighboring horse track, drawing riddles at trap speed. Tap, tap, tap.

The birds outside accompany Omara Portuondo, as she sings to Ferrer's tunes. The rider is unaware of my music, the horse snorts.

The sand is wet, as it always is in November, albeit the shining sun. It is the Indian summer. Shades of brown, red, yellow overwhelm the scenery, every once in a while leaves leave their trees like flakes.

Another typical day on the ranch for the horsewoman I guess, every move seems well trained, routinely executed. I hope she's enjoying the day, too.

I sit back and relax. Life is full of surprises. Some surprises advance to myths.

Keith Jarrett's Cologne concert may have never been such a phenomenon, if he hadn't found the wrong piano on the stage, and decided then to play the tune differently than usual. "Adjust" is the word in town, adjust yourself. I am trying to adjust myself.

The silence vanishes as Kids come in. Within seconds the tv is turned on. Everybody is talking, bad news as usual: strikes and elections, wars and death, market and wealth.

The groove is gone, the rider, too. It's grey now.