It’s eight PM.
Dinner is done and the washing up of course.
Since my evening zazen, I’m feeling restless. Desert was a strong pour-over and six squares of rum and raisin chocolate. Meditation with a chaser of caffeination.

Let us see.
20 bazillion movies to choose from on Netflix and I can’t find a single one to watch. Flipping through the recommendations, then the new releases and then with a head-rush of the complete opposite of enthusiasm I ping pong randomly around the screens. For ages.

Finally I turn off the TV.
Queing up my jazz playlist on the stereo. I dim the lights.
Charles Mingus franticly leads his band through ‘Nobody Knows’.
Thats seems imediately better.
Next, the shuffle function steps the pace down with Miles Davis and ‘Blue in Green’ and I slide into it like a warm soapy bath.

No longer interested in watching TV at all, I sit at the dining table which (thanks to the emotive trumpet of Chet Baker) has now transmogrified into a small circular table in a crowded smoky jazz club…(probably in New York) and read my Kindle for a bit.
Then I think to myself, this is cool. I am cool.
So I spend 15 minutes balancing my iPhone on the ironing board so I can take a photo of myself being completely un-scriptedly cool (and another 10 minutes filtering it) to share with you here.
See? Proof.

Satisfied with the result, I get back to actually reading the kindle….but with the current aesthetic vibe it now just seems somehow off.
I go and grab an old dog-eared paperback.
The haptics are perfect, and it smells like a bookshop. Downtown 1958.

Tonight I am sitting at a small table in a jazz club in a bookshop in New York. It is noisy and smokey and smells like a paperback, and I am listening to Keith Jarrett and waiting for that cute girl in the saloon-style skirt who is going from table to table selling cigarettes that are displayed on a tray suspended from her neck by a black leather strap…..here she comes.
I am totally sure I will think of something cool to say.

Netflix is dead.