Maybe it's the summer rain. Maybe it's a longing for smoke and saxophones. Maybe it's restless feet. Whatever the reason, I'm back.
If there's anyone out there who's followed me from blog to blog with huge gaps of space between posts, thank you. My instinct is to apologize for bouncing around, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to let my erratic enigma be and not try to smooth it over.
Suffice it to say, I'm glad to be back. I've switched on the red bulbs and the twinkling Christmas lights. I've opened up the shutters and put on some Nina Simone. There's a stick of Nag Champa burning and cushions on the floor. I'm slipping into something a little more comfortable with a little more skin. I hope you'll do the same.
Jizz Jazz' Juke Joint for the Soul-a little southern comfort to soothe what ails you. A place you can sink your teeth in. A tin-roof shack worn in as memory.
I've been coming in here, on and off now, for nearly five years. I never realize how much I've missed being away until I come swinging through that front door.
I've been drunk here. Wild here. Scared and afraid.
I sat here while life as I knew it fell apart, and managed to write it all down.
I got sober here. Took refuge here. Found shelter in stormy weather.
I come here for sexual healing. For art. For thinking and dreaming.
There's something snakey and magical about this place, too. Some graveyard dust under the floorboards maybe, herbs and charms hanging from the rafters, ratty old Tarot cards dealt out on the ratty old divan.
Rains alot here, and that's the way I like it. Never too sunny, never too bright. Cozy, though. Warm when it needs to be. Fans in the window for when it's hot.
Most important, though, it's where I can be who I need to be, say what I need to say, and let the chips fall where they may.
It's good to be home.
Passion, beauty, and love, folks--one day at a time...
Posts
