On Epictetus

Standing upon a tree fallen over a while ago: a pine tree.

It's long branches brushing the ice-cold waters of Strait of Georgia: yet it's trunk remains above the water: a balance beam for the intrepid.

Upon this tree cast into the sea (by wind or erosion or who knows), Epictetus stands.

Naked.  Rotund.  Short powerful legs.  

Hairy.  Rough-crude dreds piled upon his head.

He asks me: "have you heard of Chet Baker"
"no"
"Oh.  You haven't heard his slow slow jazz?"
"no"
"like this" he says: "bra, tra, bee, waah wahh, woow, bra, bee, really slow slow slow and soulful?"
"no"
"Ah man" Epictetus says "you have to hear him! tra, la, la, leh, boo, bee, tra, tra, tra, tra, la, la, leh, boo, bee: really slow, you know?"
"okay".

Epictetus standing on the log naked, balancing on the bole, making slow soulful trumpet noises with his mouth, playing an air trumpet: trying to make me remember a musician I have never heard of.

He jumps down, walks off and sits beside the other nude sunbathers.