what happens to a dream?

What do you do when you're offered something that at one point in time would have been a dream come true? But now that you may actually be ready for it ('cause you sure weren't when you were dreamin' about it), you're not so sure you have the same dreams. You sort of do. You still get a little (or not so little) thrill from it. But you're not quite sure it's where you want to go.

What do you do then?

It's like when that guy you had a crush on for so long last year finally admits he's really into you... but you're over it; at least mostly over it....

Well... it's kinda like that.

I'm busy, really really busy

My schedule is frequently insane. Busy is essentially my state of being. I push to the point of exhaustion; I have fallen asleep in the bar while trying to watch a friend play a gig; I volunteer...alot; I double book and go to two or three things in an evening sometimes. And I do nothing to alter this reality.

I have to think about it quite hard sometimes (when I start to feel overwhelmed) in order to realize that most of the busy-ness is of my own creation. I don't mean work obligations - that's a given. I work in the arts, if you are not busy you probably won't have a job much longer (or be able to eat and pay bills). In all honesty if I look around at most of my contemporaries in the arts, they're all really busy, with extra bits to make ends meet, and fiery social lives to boot. And I have not one but two side "businesses" aside from my (HA!) 9 to 5 job.

But I don't stop there. I am out and about more or less constantly. There are no rules dictating my social schedule; no one will really get upset if I don't go to that event, or don't stay until 2 a.m. But I hate to miss things I just go. I just do.

Eventually I will take a night off, a vacation and hibernate for a night or two but I get stir crazy pretty quick and have to poke my nose out to see what's going on.

Because I hate to miss things. And I miss people most of all.

May I never be one of those girls who drops into this cutesy voice whenever I talk to men. Even if it means being alone for the rest of my life. If anyone ever hears me drop into a cutesy little girl voice when speaking to men please ping me with an elastic or something. Unless I'm being funny. that's different.

And while I'm at the whole inverse curse/wish thing:
May I never have breasts that pass my elbows.

who knew?

That the cure for what ails me would be Newfoundlanders?

I guess I should have known, somewhere in the back of my head

I still think I need a day off and some sleep (maybe more now) but it's pretty much impossible to stay in a pissy mood when surrounded by Newfoundlanders.

So I made the ill-advised attempt to prolong something that was extremely joyous and special for me by engaging in a similar activity with some of the same people. So wrong. In so many ways.

bah.

sometimes I'm just dumb.

Also I made the assumption that this smaller, sort of more intimate setting would be good for a certain situation. And it was...sort of... but in the end that just made everything worse.

again...dumb.

got mojo?

Lanquid and sexy. Somehow I can feel New Orleans here. I can smell the gumbo and hush puppies (maybe it's the concession up there on the hill). All these people moving en masse to the rumbly-voiced men on stage with nicknames like “Big Eyes” and “Steady Rollin.'”

The Blues. I forgot how oddly joyous the Blues can make people. It's almost like this method of putting misery to music is such a complete purge of the bad news that all that is left is pure joy. Hypnotic. Couples dancing in front of the stage, people working up a sweat, drinking in the beer garden, lounging on the grass… everyone is enthralled by what's happening on stage. The crowd, which by rights could have been unruly (hard drinkers these blues fans), still responds to every word the performers utter. Every shout-out is answered, every echoing chorus sung by what seems like every single person out there. The Hammond B3 and the upright bass and that guy wailing on his guitar.

There's definitely some kinda magic happening; some sort of voodoo. The evenings feel sultry, sexy and someone's mojo was definitely in full effect. Ah the Blues… how I'd missed you.

Sing it for me now: “Got my mojo workin' “
It worked on me. That's for sure.