A sleeping house. Even the dog has given up, drooped, dropped, draped himself over the dog bed, chin on paws. Jack breathes heavily, covers thrown off. I will join them.
After band practice tonight, at which I would have lingered for another hour if I hadn’t been keeping my sister (sister slash babysitter, when the husband is out of town,) anyway after band practice I am resolved to find this again, in The Big Easy. I have been informed that nobody who lives there calls it that. I’m not sure if you know this, but when you mention that you’re moving to New Orleans everyone in the room will have an opinion on how to pronounce it properly. Almost like the San Francisco litmus test, where if you call it San Fran or Frisco people snort into their elbows and mutter obscene condescension in your general direction.
Anyway, the "this" of my previous paragraph is live music. I love it, love performance in general, and would dive back into theatre if my baby boy wasn’t so small and I didn’t have such a huge crush on him. I need performance with a family friendly time commitment. It makes me feel alive, and maybe that says something bad about me? Eh, the mercy of being 30 and not 20 is that I don’t worry about that so much. I just be who I be.
Virgil and Jackjack snooze away. Nearing midnight. Time to keep my promise and join them, we three sleeping souls in the house. I’ll be wailing on the mic in my dreams, in the Big Easy, Nawlins, Noo OrLEENS, New Orlins – a new place, but the same me.
Dream well.
And think how much more awesome Creole wailin will be! (I say Norlins. And I went to High School there so I am right!)