02/16/2021
Floyd
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Klezmer's Dream
Django only had three fingers, but he played as if he had a hundred. Klezmer couldn't stop thinking about him. He pushed his shabby guitar aside, sank down on his bed and stared at his calloused fingers. Then at the little jar of Gitana's ointment. It smelled of wormwood, camphor, and herbs. He put it on his battered hands, where the scent became one with the roots he'd pulled from the ground that day.
Klezmer rummaged for his tobacco, found it under his pack, the bark mulch and moss. He liked it, the damp ground kept the knaster clammy, as did his clothes and the musty mattress. An hour reveling in the black Temeswar tobacco, the smell of the bark, the rain in the park, then he dug into the leather sack that usually carried his guitar and was bruised from the weather, the sweat of sleep from hot summer nights, the animals that passed the time with him, and the sage traces of past suffering.
Then the notes in his dream ran like balmy sweet medicine from resins among all the smells that slowly faded over hours like sounds, across the old guitar strings. Until klezmer began to play in his mind, melancholy and deep: Djelem! Djelem!
(With thanks to Kylesa)
Klezmer rummaged for his tobacco, found it under his pack, the bark mulch and moss. He liked it, the damp ground kept the knaster clammy, as did his clothes and the musty mattress. An hour reveling in the black Temeswar tobacco, the smell of the bark, the rain in the park, then he dug into the leather sack that usually carried his guitar and was bruised from the weather, the sweat of sleep from hot summer nights, the animals that passed the time with him, and the sage traces of past suffering.
Then the notes in his dream ran like balmy sweet medicine from resins among all the smells that slowly faded over hours like sounds, across the old guitar strings. Until klezmer began to play in his mind, melancholy and deep: Djelem! Djelem!
(With thanks to Kylesa)
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