Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

It's a lush wet Thursday morning and I skipped yoga to knock out these several crucial chapters and instead am sitting here awash in coffee and ice cream and Chet Baker and Time After Time and a whole lotta existential whatever.

Not to hit you over the head with my man Chet again but it seems that it's that Almost Blue time yet again for my annual wistful Baker post (Isn't It Romantic?) and seeing as Time After Time has been added to the looping evening playlist behind the bar and it pops into my hearing as a balm every night when I least expect it I can't quite ever seem to shake it from my consciousness these days. Add to that the fact that I received news in the hush of Ash Wednesday that my childhood home, long sans family, echoing now only with death and memories, was put on the market in this most unfortunate of housing markets, and hit by the strangely poignant knowledge that there's a lone silver trumpet sitting tucked in a basement closet waiting patiently all these years for me to love it again, that same old horn that first called Chet into my life, and when the hell am I gonna get to Nebraska to rescue it?, because oh wait, Time's a passing, Time After Time, and here comes aforementioned birfday just around the bend, rich with nostalgia of its own making, and my god, thank goodness for a melancholy black and white 7:18 minutes straight from Belgium 1964 in which Chet croons and the mind slows and the breath deepens and it. will. all. be. fine.


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