the steam from the bath clears my mind and the calmness of Miles Davis keeps me from dwelling on thoughts of last night and how I ran screaming from the tourists in search of sanity and solitude.
In moments of reflection, I wonder if I can tolerate this city for another minute. nobody is from here, nobody gives a shit if you live or die--- just, did you place your bet? the endless drumbeat of eat, drink, gamble, sex rinse repeat...some days i must stop the merry-go-round and sit.
the trumpet plays in my head, dancing and swirling with the picture memories of last evening. Miles Davis soloing his way though the lobby of the Bellagio, like a one-man New Orleans parade for Mardi Gras. The piano placing notes like bricks of a foundation for the leads to dance atop of all while the quiet buzzing of the snare makes me tap a beat with my finger against the glass wall.
but, my mood continues to worsen. I don't feel right inside today. Can i be alone? can i simply drift away into myself and not return? what compels me to open my eyes and force interaction with the outside world?
then i think that somewhere in this city a drunk man is hurting a woman...and I feel cold spread in my stomach.
i can't stay in the bath all day. so much needs to be done. i'll just lay here with my eyes closed until Miles finishes making changes to my soul.
entry from Ella's Journal
blues in the morning
A RAY HOLDEN STORY
Stephen Moran lives in Las Vegas with his beautiful wife, baby Kiana, and two dogs.