So, this past year hasn’t been the easiest one for me, for any number of reasons.  Since this blog isn’t in the ’self-help’ or ‘depression’ section of the internet library, I’ll spare you all the gory details.  Basically, for the last 10 months, me sitting at home alone for more than two days in a row, equals disaster.  I’m talking about drinking way too much Jameson whiskey and listening to “In Too Deep” by the terrible imitation of Genesis that Phil Collins headed, over and over again until I end up in a drunken heap on the couch.  Classy, I know.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the value of music, how it can heal even in its most casual forms, especially in tandem with companionship.  I spent the night with a few friends at a local spot in the Fair Park area of Dallas that happens to have an amazing jazz night.  Have an instrument, talent, and want to sit in?  Sure, come on up!  It’s the type of place that is infectious in its mood; everyone there is affected by the music, the warmth and the intricacies of the various parts that connect to form a song.  Everything in that bar is soothing, knit, macrame’, soft, enveloping.  Physical touch, pure and simple in its ability to heal, is the currency there.  Except for at the bar.  Money is still the currency at the bar (the bartenders don’t like it when you try to pay in hugs–trust me).  Oh well.

I sat listening to the music, letting the infectious smiles on the faces of the musicians spark my own.  This is the kind of therapy I can get behind–no psychoanalyst’s couch like in a classic Freudian cliche’.  Just fingers on keys, rim-shots, the vibrations of a reed, the crooning of a honeyed voice.  Sigh…and they only play until 1:45am??

I’m going to need more whiskey.  Clearly.