Friday is for throwing out a week of stale chord progressions for a good pair of jeans. It’s for playing with scales and avoiding the usual trappings of key changes.
Fridays are my Kind of Blue.
The sky had just put on a soft robe of periwinkle when I got to school. A slow breeze stirred, and I felt a promising movement in the crisp September air.
Or maybe it was my third shot of espresso.
I turned the key and opened my door. Silhouettes of desks were sleeping in a glassy sheet of blue. Light had flooded over the tiled floor, and now it looked brand new.
Or maybe it was last night’s custodians.
And then my sneakers squeaked across it as I walked toward my desk. I sat down and swiveled through morning routines and stacks of clean-edged exams, but two open windows kept pulling me in another direction.
Or maybe it was the jazz.
I watched a long string of melody come together as school busses, scooters and morning commuters merged into a familiar parking lot arrangement. Each note soon found its place among the bright lines of a yellow staff.
Or maybe it was the timbre of the saxophone.
The Jazz Messengers were “Doodlin” in my room, while colors slowly turned and sharpened into focus beyond the window. The rising sun smeared alternating gold, goldenrod, and then maize across the young trees. Some whispered of autumn. But within minutes, the colors fell and muted into the grey asphalt.
But then Miles Davis stood up with his trumpet and asked a famous question.
I answered with a poem. Switching up my lesson plans, I began class with a poem, which confused most of my students, I think. But they still snapped their fingers when I finished.
Friday rhythms usually sound Kind of Blue — when we hear them.