Architectural Blueprints of Dance

I've been putting off a blog entry for a minute, waiting for a couple things to come down the pike. I recently was offered two writing opportunities, one I took with a little hesitation and one which I took with enthusiasm.

I hesitated over that first opportunity because it was a gig writing about New Orleans music. I love music, and New Orleans music especially, but I've always been happy loving it as a fan and an audience member, someone under no obligation to analyze the music, attempt to describe it, or work out just what it is I love about it. It struck me writing about music might change that relationship, imperiling the purity of my enjoyment, and the possibility made me nervous.

But I met with the people behind the project, and it was clear we had things in common. The folks running the Juju Association are also fans of the music, first and foremost, and their affection for it shows in their attitudes and their aspirations. Seeing the work they were doing, I put aside my fears. I realized I was basically being a big superstitious baby.

When something makes me happy, I enjoy sharing that happiness. It's not a zero-sum system. Having written a profile of Nasimiyu for the Juju Association's new website certainly hasn't dimmed my ardor for her work: I spent almost an hour yesterday listening to "When Autumn Came" off Nasimiyu's debut EP two dozen or so times in a row.

...which might seem weird, but "endlessly on repeat" is often the way I listen to music I like. Ask anyone who's lived with me.

I also wrote a piece about the Sweet Street Symphony, and a basic promotional bio of Nasimiyu for the site's artists section. There will be more of my work on the Juju Association site going forward; I feel like it's a solid and promising partnership.

<a href="" mce_href="">When Autumn Came by Nasimiyu</a>

The other writing opportunity didn't turn out so well. I knocked myself out, produced some amazing work, and for what? Is it anywhere that anyone else can see or read it? No. All I've gotten are broken promises.

I'm only on earth for so long. I don't like when I write something tremendous for someone and it turns out I've wasted my time. Everyone has excuses-- there are always excuses-- and everybody falls down. I'm not a dick about things; amongst other reasons, I can't afford to be. I give chances, and sometimes I need chances myself. But when I really feel burned, and I've set my face against you, you're out in the cold in a serious, unto-the-seventh-generation way.

I was really excited about seeing what I wrote for this other venture in print, but at this point I have to quit hoping. I have to assume it's not happening. C'est la fuck.

There are a couple big-- big, book-length big-- projects in the works, and I'm gonna be at a couple events in the lead-up to The 10th Annual New Orleans Bookfair on November 5, but all them will get their own entries.

It's fall, alright. "I feel a cool breeze rise off the Mississippi/
and hear it rustle the glistening leaves..."

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