No More Voo-doo Until I Find My Mojo

I do love Voo-Doo. I wish there was some where I work so I could dash in for a quick one at lunch break. But, I have to think of reasons to not eat here.

I've got this ritual, covering the tops of saltines with burnt orange love sauce and then counting drips that fall from holes before the whole ka-bang is in my mouth.

"I need extra sauce," a take-out patron demands with heroine-addiction impetus.
"Oh yeah--you do!" I applaud in my mind but not out loud (because my mouth is full with a poor-man's appetizer.)

Besides, we patrons need to stick together, keep it quiet. No one here wants management to know how bad we need their spicy cane juice. They'll start charging to leave the bottle at the table.

Voo-Doo definitely has the best BBQ in my neighborhood--probably in the whole city. I came here after I lost a court case that my ex left me to fight. I came here after the master bedroom flooded. I came here immediately after...

I'll definitely need me some Voo-doo at the next stop.

"Wherever that might be".

Oh, I know! I told you I was going to Austin, but:

• the kids gotta eat 
• the job that i hated became my life-jacket
• life is wherever I breathe
• even if i'm single for the rest of my life
• because i could still be alone in Austin
• and, i have to start over
• and, i have to find a job
• and, i have kids to feed

Tonight, I don't have to make sense of it. I just need to eat my yummy 'Mardi Gras with smoked turkey, dried berries, diced mango, and hold the stinky-sock-goat-cheese salad', please. Tonight, I play in the yummy blackberry vinaigrette, drizzling non-sensical circles.

"I don't know how these crazy Cajuns haven't figure out how to batter this shi-zizzle, deep fry it, and cover it with more sauce."
"This $4*t is serious!"

I can't ever decide which one is best. I pick blind and then get too committed to remember THERE ARE OTHER OPTIONS. By then, I'm half crazed in a way that I haven't felt since the last time I was in Voo-doo. I look at the spice rack that has holes for other choices and reach out. I don't care which one. I just need to feed this force.

"I could easily stay with this one for the rest of my meal."

I've already covered all of my saltines with one of the two when I realize I'm halfway through my pallet refreshing pint, but I haven't tasted the third sauce. I hold its label to the light, savoring the last act.

"'Mojo'! Why did I ever go for the 'Tangy' or 'Traditional' first?"

And then--after two years of involuntary celibacy-,-this entire conversation resembles a dating pattern.

"God--I soooooooo need a girlfriend!"

Tools (only) My Heart Has

          My heart has already

          gone to Austin, and I

          fear that my mind

          doesn’t’ have the tools

          to lure it east of the

          Lone Star state line.

I got notice yesterday that we’re—finally—closing on the house next month. So, I text'd these thoughts to DimSum after a night of not sleeping. 

Tonight, I’m on a business trip with Love Heroine and some others I rarely travel with. We’re playing darts in a pub. I’m up against New Guy. I aim for ‘20’ but hit ‘4’.

“I’m going home,” I think of the lights that shine on the state capitol at Congress Avenue. 

In rapid succession, I think of five friends who will be less than 10 miles away from wherever I live. I think of homemade tortillas and Town Lake. My whole body shivers with excitement, and I’m glad that I have this wonderful secret.

“It’s time.”

New guy makes up crazy ways to throw the darts, and I think of soon-to-be Saturday nights in Austin. For New Year’s, I’ll be dancing in a room that’s sticky and smelly with not-so-straight-people. My heart races at the thought that the girl in a blue dress could be in the same spot at Oil Can Harry’s. I aim for ‘19’ but it bounces and the point sticks in the floor.

“I’m going home!”

The text to DimSum caused me to think of unknowns that come with moving to this ridiculously popular city. Sure, I have friends there, but I don’t have a job or place to live with my 3 pets. I have savings; but, will it last? Then, tears release anx when I feel truth knot up in my throat.

“At least I finally know where I need to be.”

It won’t be Florida—not Georgia, not Alabama, not Louisiana, not California. I’ve been on an incredible adventure this past decade, but it’s not easy to be a stranger in the South when you’re gay. My heart hurts for familiar faces that calibrate my soul.

“I’ll be home for the Armadillo Bazaar, SxSW, and Pride. Ahhhh, Hippie Hollow!"

It’s been 11 years.  #2—who I don’t write about but was the best thing that ever happened to my relentless frame filled with too much wanderlust—taught me about unconditional love and about making a home feel inviting. But, the world was my oyster; I needed adventure. So, we moved to Florida and then Georgia.  Whatever I was looking for wasn’t in Atlanta—with her—, so I followed #3 to California, to Alabama, to Louisiana where she would leave me for a 27-year old. (Not that there’s anything wrong with marrying someone who was in diapers the summer you left for college).

It’s all good; I’m better for the toils and troubles that come with this many moves and mysteries. I finally appreciate simple breaths and beliefs from random beings. I never took the time for strangers until I was one. 

“I’m going home.”

Tossing darts with my eyes not looking toward the bull’s eye, I'm thinking about how good it will feel to play darts at Gingerman on a Sunday afternoon with a pint of St. Arnold Brown in my bellly. And, I’m thinking about outdoor concerts at Bestie’s and Bestie Jr’s. I can feel the summer Texas heat rise through my thighs, and it makes me shiver.

A few months ago, I interviewed for a job with a great company that could give me a good job title. I can stay ‘there’ for the rest of my adult career, my life.

“Maybe they’ll call back before I pack everything?”

This crazed-hope scares me. It would mean life in a small city-town. I think of that last weekend in Austin, having breakfast with Wingman the morning after Pride, and thinking of all of the people who were celebrating their life in public. There were thousands. And, I am remembering the feeling I had, hoping to touch the hips of the girl in the blue dress.

Last weekend, trying to stay positive—so that I can put food on the table for Sweet Georgia Brown, Cali Surfer Girl, and Puff the Magic Dragonslayer—, I got a voyeur’s license for Cupid.com. I searched within 100 miles of that city-town. Not one lesbian seeks companionship.

“Can a place like that ever be home?” 

I think about living with a lover there and know that I’ll be half living. We won’t be out; I’ll for forever be introduced as her friend. Yuck.  Even if I never find another lover in Austin, I’ll be 3-D. There, lovers hold hands in broad day light.

“Imagine.”

“Everyone should live this life wherever they are.”