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The Code of Choister dictates: sometimes you need to get away from decision-making for a sec.  Not put it off, per se, but get outta dodge, jet-set to a city known for its frozen drinks, and, well, lose yourself.  Fast.

I have not had to go out of my way to avoid thinking about my shifting marriage, our differences in sexual needs and desired marital roles, this week.  I am living in the dreamy Big Easy, where time passes at a crawl and every bite of Jambalaya, every sip of Hand Grenade (a local froze favorite, neon green like Ecto-Plasm and boozy enough for a dissatisfied housewife), expands into the vastness of each moment, lingering like a mist over the ground. Last night, I experienced the 5-plus member brass band, Rebirth, blow their horns high and loud and wild in the sweaty Maple Leaf venue on Oak Street, spilling sound and fans into a street smoky with bar-b-que, cigarretes, and spirited 1am, under-the-stars-relating. I shook and shimmied my heart out until it turned to sweet perspiration, laughed and drank and spread out in ways I never could in New York, never could in my life right now. I was, and have been, in the Zen no-mind; hours pass during the zaftig afternoons (it feels like it is always afternoon here if the sun is up) without the effort of forming a pre-pondered thought.  Occasionally I come to with a journaled note, a sentence or two about what I want in a relationship, a boundary I have discovered, or a lazily poetic description of food or sunset or church bell.  I am squeezing these humid moments for all their juice, releasing my angst and my effort to the swaying, bursting horns and claps.  At my creative choister best, I knew what I needed, not to avoid but to pause, to look away from the chaos and let it lie, disordered, until a time when order makes sense again. I am getting what I need here, in the sweat, in the food, in the company, in the music.  A stretched, bluesy moment away, a moment to breathe.

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