I'm still in a dreamy state from my ultra relaxing yoga class today. I swear the entire class fell asleep during Savasana, including me. I could tell from the dazed and confused looks on all their faces, as if woken from a delicious dream.

I'm listening to a medley of New Orleans Jazz in anticipation of a friend's visit at the end of the month when we'll be dining at Ralph Brennan's Jazz Kitchen. There is something dreamy, romantic and festive about those horns that seem to seep into your soul and elevate your mood even when it's already in a peaceful state. Part party, part entertainment mixed with adventure and danger, just like the friend I'm seeing. My imagination conjures up hot southern nights, weeping willows glowing under misty lantern light, bourbon, silver shakers full of potent punch and men smoking cigars in black blazers.

My friend asked me what inspires me and the words irony, tragedy, and genuine heroics came to mind. Strange for a romantic poet I'm thinking. Then again, perhaps not. Many great things have been written with those three at the center. The harder thing to figure out is: the more we clamor after the answers, trying to grasp a piece of one, even when we know our attempts are going to be futile, the further away they slip. It's the mysteries that boggle the brain. The more we want to connect the dots the more the whole thing looks like an unending ink blot bleeding into endless forms. If only we could make sense of the light surrounding the dark spots.