Paul and I went to hear some jazz at Churchill Grounds a couple weeks ago.
I scratched notes on a small piece of paper throughout.
Here are the ones I can read:

"You know I hear ya."
The players didn't start; they were just in.
Slow piano jam with closed eyes.
"Joel, you gotta remember that one, man," while pointing at his head.
Trumpet players laugh when song is finished.
Feel the ghosts and the notes.
They know they killed it.
Climbing a mountain.
Homeless.
I'm surrounded with freedom.
No patterns.
No cell phones.
Oriental guy taking pictures all night.
Carrot cake.
Cool hats rank the veterans.
An army of cool.
Light falling from candles on faces.
Why won't this culture die?
Loud curses in breaths solo breaks.
Kept playing when amp broke.
Bongos.
African drums strapped to floor.
All communication with no talking.
Players walk in off street blazing in right key.
Trumpet trio from bar stools in back blowing cold on my neck.
Couple sitting as close as possible.
She's in his lap.
Couple talking about breaking up.
Total silence during bass solo with a broken amp.
Wind blowing leaves outside in the yellow street.
Taking a swim.
Smell of alcohol.
Play to the room.
Play what you see.
Red walls, empty chairs, grooving souls.
Heads setting tempo...backward, forward, backward, forward.
God, we are all groaning.
What will they do next?
Question every listener must ask if they are being inspired.
Not playing for anyone but the foggy world behind their eyes.
Hands are an extension of the soul...crushing and smashing.