Somewhere between San Diego and Houston, I discovered that I am actually not crazy after all. Or, I discovered that I am uncommonly stubborn about being crazy, which is fortunate. Those who have received me on the road thus far -- friends, audiences, hair stylists, natural monuments, and that unforgettable Cuban guy at the Orange County gas station -- have steadily unveiled a heartfelt consensus that I am right where I am supposed to be (in their presence) doing exactly what I ought to be doing (singing). To say that I have abandoned a path of decay for a means toward mutual salvation wouldn't be overly dramatic. Setting fire to my own life to do it was dramatic. The result is something utterly natural and should be ordinary (existing in and formed by nature, of or pertaining to the universe, in a state of nature, uncultivated as the land, growing spontaneously without being planted or tended by human hand, having a real or physical existence as opposed to one that is intellectual or fictitious...).

I have taken the empty corridors of my life -- the paths where the meaningless gestures of an overly stagnated social order convince us to stack the hollow casings of our emotions toward creating undue drama for a routine existence -- and used them as collateral against an investment where I expect no greater return than the survival of my soul to the benefit of the world.

I continue to seek your collaboration. Existentially, logistically, and otherwise.

What else? I puked in Phoenix. Flat tire in Taos. Shattered window in San Diego. Tonto National Forest exists, beautifully. Napped by the Rio Grande Gorge bridge. Houston, strangely enough, has been a home away from home.

Thank you for making life worthwhile,

Jenne