12.23.2005
12.17.2005
I've been fielding a lot of questions lately...so here it is
Last night, Jeff Finn came into town. When I saw him I gave him a big hug and crocodile tears quivered in my eyes. He is the first hello I have met that really meant good-bye, since I have returned. He has permanently relocated to the bay area, but he is from here. He has always seemed like a fixture here. Even though his mother tells me this is a good move for him, and I should encourage him, I can't help feeling devastated at the notion that he won't be here any more.
After work, he and I went out to Mimi's and sat in the cozy upstairs tapas bar sipping brandy and eating goat cheese croquetas (yum), exchanging stories of evacuation, and "what's it like now", then realized that it was almost CERFEW (yuck), and ran to The Saint, a crusty rock n roll bar that we used to frequent after work at the Rue.
We talked and noticed who was there, and who wasn't. The thing about this bar is there is never any surprise concerning who will be there. It is always the same lower garden district, vespa driving, hipsters that we worked with at the coffee shop, and Juan's Flying Burrito. A good friend came to hug us hello and talk to us.
Jeff noted that being back in town, made him feel like an ex-patriot.... running into old friends and acquaintances, asking what happened to them, how they are...etc. Everyone has a dramatic story of near escape, evacuation, living with people, or worse, not living with people, and reunion. Everyone except those who were not so fortunate. It becomes very difficult to think of these people, and yet totally unavoidable.
Jeff and I have a friend in Mississippi whose parents lost EVERYTHING. Every scrap of anything they had has been taken by the tidal surge. Jeff remarked at how horrible it was to see his father's house destroyed, but absolutely nauseating to see the barrenness of Mississippi. He said "N.O., forget about it, Mississippi is the real disaster.
Sometimes, I feel the same. But it's just different. Does that make any sense?
This bitter sweetness here that is created from the joy of homecoming and the extensive losses of our community and friends is actually very familiar. New Orleans has ALWAYS been bittersweet.
I love that our restaurants and musicians and traditions are returning. I hate that the bulk of our community is feeling unloved, and neglected in other cities. There was a headline last week that said "How can you have Mardi Gras if we aren't even there?" This was a quote from a disgruntled evacuee in Atlanta. This might seem silly to non-New Orleanians, but really! If there are no high school student, who will supply the marching bands and flag girls? That's the best part! No home = no families = no flag girls in sequins shaking their adorable rumps to a badass marching band, covering a hip-hop song with jazz overtones = no Mardi Gras worth a damn.
I don't think we have ever needed Mardi Gras so badly, as we do now. That is the manifestation of this city's tremendous creative energy. God bless those stranded in other parts of the world. The pull to come home for Mardi Gras is very strong.
The single most hurtful thing that pokes at me lately is the discussion about "we can't afford levees". What type of shit is that? We can afford a war, an enormous tax cut(which according to the NYT is 3X the cost of new levees), petroleum subsidies to serve SUV drivers, and probably insurance bail outs, but not levees? People are really scrutinizing our local government for it's inability to recover, but virtually nothing is worth doing until a protection system is put together.
What can be done without protection? Who will come home and rebuild, and develop, and invest, when our safety and equity is uninsurable? The only reason it is uninsurable is because congress has said so. Are we not American? Do we not send our tax dollars to Washington and our children to war? Do we not sacrifice our ecosystem for access to oil and natural gas? Have we not provided this country with beautiful music, seafood, art, and above all a playground for ivy league brats and square people that need to let loose and pollute our streets with daiquiri cups and vomit? Yes, we sit on the sidelines of Bourbon Street and clean up the mess as best we can in the morning. Yep. The people who live here do that. You’re welcome. New Orleans is the concubine of America and it is embarrassing that we have misunderstood this relationship for centuries. We have served this country and the very notion that the United States of America thinks we aren't worth protecting makes me want to defect, or sell our city to Castro. We are pretty angry here. Maybe it's just me.
There are so many problems here, but why don't they seem worth fixing? I am no political genius, but if we compare the cost of investing in New Orleans now vs. the cost of endless disaster relief, I will put my money on the preventative maintenance option.
I am sorry if I have alienated any of our loved ones with this diatribe, but I felt compelled to publish my thoughts on this.
After work, he and I went out to Mimi's and sat in the cozy upstairs tapas bar sipping brandy and eating goat cheese croquetas (yum), exchanging stories of evacuation, and "what's it like now", then realized that it was almost CERFEW (yuck), and ran to The Saint, a crusty rock n roll bar that we used to frequent after work at the Rue.
We talked and noticed who was there, and who wasn't. The thing about this bar is there is never any surprise concerning who will be there. It is always the same lower garden district, vespa driving, hipsters that we worked with at the coffee shop, and Juan's Flying Burrito. A good friend came to hug us hello and talk to us.
Jeff noted that being back in town, made him feel like an ex-patriot.... running into old friends and acquaintances, asking what happened to them, how they are...etc. Everyone has a dramatic story of near escape, evacuation, living with people, or worse, not living with people, and reunion. Everyone except those who were not so fortunate. It becomes very difficult to think of these people, and yet totally unavoidable.
Jeff and I have a friend in Mississippi whose parents lost EVERYTHING. Every scrap of anything they had has been taken by the tidal surge. Jeff remarked at how horrible it was to see his father's house destroyed, but absolutely nauseating to see the barrenness of Mississippi. He said "N.O., forget about it, Mississippi is the real disaster.
Sometimes, I feel the same. But it's just different. Does that make any sense?
This bitter sweetness here that is created from the joy of homecoming and the extensive losses of our community and friends is actually very familiar. New Orleans has ALWAYS been bittersweet.
I love that our restaurants and musicians and traditions are returning. I hate that the bulk of our community is feeling unloved, and neglected in other cities. There was a headline last week that said "How can you have Mardi Gras if we aren't even there?" This was a quote from a disgruntled evacuee in Atlanta. This might seem silly to non-New Orleanians, but really! If there are no high school student, who will supply the marching bands and flag girls? That's the best part! No home = no families = no flag girls in sequins shaking their adorable rumps to a badass marching band, covering a hip-hop song with jazz overtones = no Mardi Gras worth a damn.
I don't think we have ever needed Mardi Gras so badly, as we do now. That is the manifestation of this city's tremendous creative energy. God bless those stranded in other parts of the world. The pull to come home for Mardi Gras is very strong.
The single most hurtful thing that pokes at me lately is the discussion about "we can't afford levees". What type of shit is that? We can afford a war, an enormous tax cut(which according to the NYT is 3X the cost of new levees), petroleum subsidies to serve SUV drivers, and probably insurance bail outs, but not levees? People are really scrutinizing our local government for it's inability to recover, but virtually nothing is worth doing until a protection system is put together.
What can be done without protection? Who will come home and rebuild, and develop, and invest, when our safety and equity is uninsurable? The only reason it is uninsurable is because congress has said so. Are we not American? Do we not send our tax dollars to Washington and our children to war? Do we not sacrifice our ecosystem for access to oil and natural gas? Have we not provided this country with beautiful music, seafood, art, and above all a playground for ivy league brats and square people that need to let loose and pollute our streets with daiquiri cups and vomit? Yes, we sit on the sidelines of Bourbon Street and clean up the mess as best we can in the morning. Yep. The people who live here do that. You’re welcome. New Orleans is the concubine of America and it is embarrassing that we have misunderstood this relationship for centuries. We have served this country and the very notion that the United States of America thinks we aren't worth protecting makes me want to defect, or sell our city to Castro. We are pretty angry here. Maybe it's just me.
There are so many problems here, but why don't they seem worth fixing? I am no political genius, but if we compare the cost of investing in New Orleans now vs. the cost of endless disaster relief, I will put my money on the preventative maintenance option.
I am sorry if I have alienated any of our loved ones with this diatribe, but I felt compelled to publish my thoughts on this.
12.10.2005
12.09.2005
New Kitty
Everyone, met Botsy. Botsy, meet everyone. The little booger won't stay still long enough for a good pic.
Merry Christmas
What I love the best about living in the 21st century? If one cannot think of anything profound to say, one need only google it!
What do you call people who are afraid of Santa Claus? Claustrophobic.
-Unknown
There is no ideal Christmas; only the one Christmas you decide to make as a reflection of your values, desires, affections, traditions.
-Bill McKibben, Author, Hundred Dollar Holiday: The Case For a More Joyful Christmas
Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.
What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.
-Agnes M. Pharo
-Hamilton Wright Mabi
Last year my mom sent me a huge box of my birthright Christmas ornaments, but I was too broke to buy a tree. This year I was still too broke, but I did it anyway. I carefully hung all of my “Jacqui” ornaments from 1976 till about 2000. I cleared the usual clutter from the mantel to make way for my grandmother’s elegant Christmas Hummel dolls, decorated tacky little stockings with glue and glitter to represent every heartbeat in this house, and spent HOURS stringing popcorn and cranberries on fishing line. Afterward we ate roasted pumpkin seeds and drank bourbon eggnog with nutmeg.
I finished this project 5 days ago and have been since, basking in the glow of my display. Honestly…it is super gaudy, and I totally love it. There is something so wonderful about the fact that it is all mine. My own holiday rules, my tree, my ornaments, my cheap tree skirt, and my history all rolled up into one. I am at the brink of beginning my own family and traditions with Sean…. exciting, huh!
I am thrilled about this holiday season. My only regrets are that I don’t get to have all of you with us.
God bless us, every one!
Merry Christmas,
Love,
Jacqui, Sean, Smiley, Dotty, Julia, and Botsy
If you haven't read it yet, I sugest, amazon.com
Why New Orleans Matters" by Tom Piazza
I find myself trying to explain this all the time. Although, I typically want to answer, "Duh!", this author has a better answer. Tom Piazza has authored some wonderful pieces on jazz, food, and New Orleans, but this book is all of the above plus politics.
The voice that his plea takes on, reminds me of... a wife, perhaps from the French revolution, pleading an irrational King not to through her lover into the guillotine, because she loves him and needs him, and can't imagine her life without him. It's like, "sure, he stole a loaf of bread.... but he was hungry, and I love him!"
Piazza has effectively captured and translated the constant Post-Katrina buzz that is deafening in New Orleans. His words are so familiar, because I have spoken many of them myself, or heard them in conversation. The concepts in this book are not revolutionary if you already love New Orleans, they are just validating. Which, I might add is something many of us need these days after over exposure to crappy media and N.O. bashing from politicians. (By the way, did anyone hear what Bill O’Reily said about poverty in New Orleans? It was brutal)
I don’t know how well it would translate to non-lovers of my city. Somebody get it and tell me. It’s ok, we know who you are and love you anyway!
11.21.2005
Weeeee are so excited
This little bird's days are numbered. William has outlined an out of sight menu for our Clio St. Thanksgiving dinner. It is very elegant, but I am determined to squeeze in some sweet potatoes with marshmallows, and canned green bean casserole with Derkey onion rings and cream of mushroom soup.
Our friends Paul & Anto from Florida, their moms from Mobile and Ireland, and our neighbors William and Matty T will attend our Thanksgiving feast. Anyone else who is around is more than welcome to join us.
I hope all of you enjoy a day of full bellies and exhausted sighs cuddled up with your families watching re-runs, drenched in gratitude for each other.
11.15.2005
11.14.2005
Back by popular demand
OK already, we are home, AND back on line!!! Sorry about the wait Suzanne.
I have been procrastinating quite a bit about publishing a re-entry post. Ya see, I wanted to write something dramatic and elegant….but um...uh..eh-hem, it’s just hasn’t come to me yet. So, I guess you get what you pay for folks.
Once upon a time a storm came and destroyed my city. This, I was told was a good place to begin.
As it turns out, my house, and the majority of my neighborhood seems to be in tact. My life is mostly in tact. Some things like mail and grocery shopping, or traffic from the West Bank can be discouraging. However, I am able to shop, dine and visit with neighbors like nothing happened.
But something did happen. Something awful happened. Even though I am home, it is really easy to forget. Sometimes it is like a bad dream or Grimm fairy tale where everything ends up mostly ok, but something indefinable and sinister remains pulsating in the back of my psyche. I am still trying to define this event from every perspective I can think of, but it’s too hard right now.
Today in New Orleans the reminder of our tragedy comes in waves of smell. The smell of rot assaults my senses like shock treatment at the oddest moments. It’s different than you might think; it’s not like the early days of Post-Katrina when everything just reeked. The smell is literally sticky and it had adhered itself to every item in the city. At this point every item that has been deemed salvageable has been somehow liberated from the sticky stink by way of soap and bleach. It is the discarded items that were destroyed by the funk, whose smell haunts everyone’s nostrils as we encounter them.
There are still piles of people’s precious things and trash and houses lining all of the streets. Most of the refrigerator corpses have been taken to some sort of mysterious black hole. This fact is at first comforting but if I think about it for long enough, my comfort dissolves and is quickly replaced with a totally overwhelming feeling of despair for the already delicate environment. I can’t even wrap my mind around the desperate situation surrounding our precious marsh.
Sean and I have been spending the majority of our time mending our home. These activities have kept my attention very much contained to the small sphere that surrounds my life at 1729 Clio St.. I have been forcing myself to go to neighborhood meetings and read the paper, but honestly, it is much easier to just sand the floors and paint the walls. Those tasks at least leave me with a sense of real accomplishment.
We got a new roof for the camel back. The tile color is called dessert sand, and it looks smashing with the black tile on the shotgun (or front) of our house. We have also fixed up the yucky apartment in the front of the house and moved in to it. It looks beautiful and I will post photos soon. Now, we don’t have to walk through the funky alley, and we can be in the front of the house and represent. Unfortunately, the new apartment is not bigger, but it will be soon. As soon as Sean moves his shop junk into the back room, we will have a bedroom and I cannot wait! I miss my big kitchen with the fabulous view, but this is good too.
I want everyone to know that our exile in Florida was as wonderful as it could have been. It was super cool to get to hangout in Sarasota and meet all of Sean’s friends and family. We both really appreciated that so many people came to our engagement party. I have not been quick to send thank-you cards because the mail isn’t really working correctly. Sorry about the bad bride etiquette.
It has been years since I have been able to pal around with my family for a whole two months. That experience was wonderful. I miss everyone a little bit more now (don’t get excited mom). I am tempted to write an Oscaresque speech thanking each and every person that has been so helpful to us during the last few months, but I’ll refrain. Besides, chances are, if you are reading this you deserve a gianormous thank you from Sean, Jacqui, and their dogs. It is because of you that we were able to weather the storm, as they say.
That is all for now, but I PROMISE I will post some pictures this week.
I have been procrastinating quite a bit about publishing a re-entry post. Ya see, I wanted to write something dramatic and elegant….but um...uh..eh-hem, it’s just hasn’t come to me yet. So, I guess you get what you pay for folks.
Once upon a time a storm came and destroyed my city. This, I was told was a good place to begin.
As it turns out, my house, and the majority of my neighborhood seems to be in tact. My life is mostly in tact. Some things like mail and grocery shopping, or traffic from the West Bank can be discouraging. However, I am able to shop, dine and visit with neighbors like nothing happened.
But something did happen. Something awful happened. Even though I am home, it is really easy to forget. Sometimes it is like a bad dream or Grimm fairy tale where everything ends up mostly ok, but something indefinable and sinister remains pulsating in the back of my psyche. I am still trying to define this event from every perspective I can think of, but it’s too hard right now.
Today in New Orleans the reminder of our tragedy comes in waves of smell. The smell of rot assaults my senses like shock treatment at the oddest moments. It’s different than you might think; it’s not like the early days of Post-Katrina when everything just reeked. The smell is literally sticky and it had adhered itself to every item in the city. At this point every item that has been deemed salvageable has been somehow liberated from the sticky stink by way of soap and bleach. It is the discarded items that were destroyed by the funk, whose smell haunts everyone’s nostrils as we encounter them.
There are still piles of people’s precious things and trash and houses lining all of the streets. Most of the refrigerator corpses have been taken to some sort of mysterious black hole. This fact is at first comforting but if I think about it for long enough, my comfort dissolves and is quickly replaced with a totally overwhelming feeling of despair for the already delicate environment. I can’t even wrap my mind around the desperate situation surrounding our precious marsh.
Sean and I have been spending the majority of our time mending our home. These activities have kept my attention very much contained to the small sphere that surrounds my life at 1729 Clio St.. I have been forcing myself to go to neighborhood meetings and read the paper, but honestly, it is much easier to just sand the floors and paint the walls. Those tasks at least leave me with a sense of real accomplishment.
We got a new roof for the camel back. The tile color is called dessert sand, and it looks smashing with the black tile on the shotgun (or front) of our house. We have also fixed up the yucky apartment in the front of the house and moved in to it. It looks beautiful and I will post photos soon. Now, we don’t have to walk through the funky alley, and we can be in the front of the house and represent. Unfortunately, the new apartment is not bigger, but it will be soon. As soon as Sean moves his shop junk into the back room, we will have a bedroom and I cannot wait! I miss my big kitchen with the fabulous view, but this is good too.
I want everyone to know that our exile in Florida was as wonderful as it could have been. It was super cool to get to hangout in Sarasota and meet all of Sean’s friends and family. We both really appreciated that so many people came to our engagement party. I have not been quick to send thank-you cards because the mail isn’t really working correctly. Sorry about the bad bride etiquette.
It has been years since I have been able to pal around with my family for a whole two months. That experience was wonderful. I miss everyone a little bit more now (don’t get excited mom). I am tempted to write an Oscaresque speech thanking each and every person that has been so helpful to us during the last few months, but I’ll refrain. Besides, chances are, if you are reading this you deserve a gianormous thank you from Sean, Jacqui, and their dogs. It is because of you that we were able to weather the storm, as they say.
That is all for now, but I PROMISE I will post some pictures this week.
9.21.2005
there'snoplacelikehome...there'snoplacelikehome...there'snoplacelikehome...
I have been clicking my heals for weeks now, maybe I should get my ruby slippers checked out.
When we first arrived in Florida, after escaping Hurricane Katrina, people were friendly. They were sincere, kind and generous. Most of them had a fondness for New Orleans that they were glad to talk about. Our Floridian hosts described America’s romantic European city whilst flecks of sweet memories glistened in their voices.
We sat at dinner tables and smiled and listened to stories of wild nights on Bourbon St., fabulous dinners, hangovers, musical experiences and near criminal misses. None of these stories really resonated well with Sean and I, but we patiently listened. It is so common that people who “JUST LOVE New Orleans” when they visit, wouldn’t dare live there. If we stuck around for after dinner drinks, most people would tell us about why that is true also. Among other reasons, they most frequently listed crime, pollution, and corruption, poor education and heat.
We have absorbed comments like: “you’d be crazy to go back” and “this kind of thing never would have happened in Florida” and “why didn’t those people just leave?”. Honestly, I have no response anymore. I can’t really explain myself so that they will understand. I even feel like, having some of these people actually adopt my sensibility of this subject would be an indicator for me to re-evaluate my logic. However, I have made it a priority to explain my love of New Orleans to myself. After all, my stay there has not been entirely easy.
I can forgive people trying to wrap their minds around the guns, sneaker looting, rape, and murder. None of that makes sense at first glance. It frightens me that I think I might understand it now…at least conceptually. Regardless of these comments, and the truths that make them, I want to go home.
We New Orleanians withstand lives of perpetual heartache and outrageous joy. None of us are able to escape the tragic poverty. Not even those of us who live in fancy mansions in Audubon Place. It permeates everything.. Similarly, we live on the front lines of crime, disease, addiction, and a tragic education system guilty of many crimes including social genocide. I like this because you can never notice your fortune without being aware of someone else’s lack of fortune. It activates our sense of gratitude.
It is also true that a great many of us have lived in anticipation of “the big one”. Believe it or not, we have known for some time that a storm like Katrina was imminent. I am guilty of conveniently redefining immanency to mean…sometime within this century. Alas, like our fearless president, I have allowed my mind to define the global warming problem with the same logic. Denial or survivalistic optimism?
I digress.
I did mention outrageous joy. I love a city that closes down every thoroughfare in town for a few weeks every year to allow parades to pass throwing toys to children…and adults. Where else do grown adults get to dress up in glitter and dance down any street in the city with their own band? Come to think of it, why is that such a strange idea everywhere else in the world? Why is it that every other city in America forces the bars to close at 2 am, and doesn’t even let you walk around with a little daiquiri? I have lived in those towns, and I promise, it doesn’t reduce the probability of drunks littering the streets at any hour. Rules do not always insure safety.
In the years that I have inhabited New Orleans, I have shared many beautiful drunken sunrises with good friends, but that is not what I love about that city. In fact, as I slowly grow older, I have become quite fond of sober moments. In fact, Mardi Gras day is far better when your mind isn't so polluted that the colors and music are dulled.
I love the baton girls and the flambeau guys and marching bands. I love the spring afternoons, sitting in the park with an iced coffee and a friend. I love dew covered crepe myrtle trees and night blooming jasmine. I love being stuck in traffic at 2 in the afternoon, because some random second line is escorting a slow moving homemade convertible with a girl in a ball grown down a road headed to a crawfish boil. In reality, what I love the most about New Orleans is that it defies arbitrary social convention.
I am now in Florida, drowning in arbitrary social convention. The oppression is outstanding. I mean it, even at the Library. What I am learning is that I need that city, because everywhere else is lame. I really can’t make it sound smarter than that. I want to go home and sit on my porch and talk to my neighbors, ride my bike around town, take my dogs to the park, hear music, eat red beans on Monday, wear an evening gown to Pop-eye’s, and have a 4 hour conversation with everybody in the Rue, about nothing, over coffee and cigarettes. I am anxious to be somewhere that feels good, like I belong there. It is the one place that has ever felt like home to me. I went there by myself. I planted my roots there. I fell in love there. I want to live and die there.
When we first arrived in Florida, after escaping Hurricane Katrina, people were friendly. They were sincere, kind and generous. Most of them had a fondness for New Orleans that they were glad to talk about. Our Floridian hosts described America’s romantic European city whilst flecks of sweet memories glistened in their voices.
We sat at dinner tables and smiled and listened to stories of wild nights on Bourbon St., fabulous dinners, hangovers, musical experiences and near criminal misses. None of these stories really resonated well with Sean and I, but we patiently listened. It is so common that people who “JUST LOVE New Orleans” when they visit, wouldn’t dare live there. If we stuck around for after dinner drinks, most people would tell us about why that is true also. Among other reasons, they most frequently listed crime, pollution, and corruption, poor education and heat.
We have absorbed comments like: “you’d be crazy to go back” and “this kind of thing never would have happened in Florida” and “why didn’t those people just leave?”. Honestly, I have no response anymore. I can’t really explain myself so that they will understand. I even feel like, having some of these people actually adopt my sensibility of this subject would be an indicator for me to re-evaluate my logic. However, I have made it a priority to explain my love of New Orleans to myself. After all, my stay there has not been entirely easy.
I can forgive people trying to wrap their minds around the guns, sneaker looting, rape, and murder. None of that makes sense at first glance. It frightens me that I think I might understand it now…at least conceptually. Regardless of these comments, and the truths that make them, I want to go home.
We New Orleanians withstand lives of perpetual heartache and outrageous joy. None of us are able to escape the tragic poverty. Not even those of us who live in fancy mansions in Audubon Place. It permeates everything.. Similarly, we live on the front lines of crime, disease, addiction, and a tragic education system guilty of many crimes including social genocide. I like this because you can never notice your fortune without being aware of someone else’s lack of fortune. It activates our sense of gratitude.
It is also true that a great many of us have lived in anticipation of “the big one”. Believe it or not, we have known for some time that a storm like Katrina was imminent. I am guilty of conveniently redefining immanency to mean…sometime within this century. Alas, like our fearless president, I have allowed my mind to define the global warming problem with the same logic. Denial or survivalistic optimism?
I digress.
I did mention outrageous joy. I love a city that closes down every thoroughfare in town for a few weeks every year to allow parades to pass throwing toys to children…and adults. Where else do grown adults get to dress up in glitter and dance down any street in the city with their own band? Come to think of it, why is that such a strange idea everywhere else in the world? Why is it that every other city in America forces the bars to close at 2 am, and doesn’t even let you walk around with a little daiquiri? I have lived in those towns, and I promise, it doesn’t reduce the probability of drunks littering the streets at any hour. Rules do not always insure safety.
In the years that I have inhabited New Orleans, I have shared many beautiful drunken sunrises with good friends, but that is not what I love about that city. In fact, as I slowly grow older, I have become quite fond of sober moments. In fact, Mardi Gras day is far better when your mind isn't so polluted that the colors and music are dulled.
I love the baton girls and the flambeau guys and marching bands. I love the spring afternoons, sitting in the park with an iced coffee and a friend. I love dew covered crepe myrtle trees and night blooming jasmine. I love being stuck in traffic at 2 in the afternoon, because some random second line is escorting a slow moving homemade convertible with a girl in a ball grown down a road headed to a crawfish boil. In reality, what I love the most about New Orleans is that it defies arbitrary social convention.
I am now in Florida, drowning in arbitrary social convention. The oppression is outstanding. I mean it, even at the Library. What I am learning is that I need that city, because everywhere else is lame. I really can’t make it sound smarter than that. I want to go home and sit on my porch and talk to my neighbors, ride my bike around town, take my dogs to the park, hear music, eat red beans on Monday, wear an evening gown to Pop-eye’s, and have a 4 hour conversation with everybody in the Rue, about nothing, over coffee and cigarettes. I am anxious to be somewhere that feels good, like I belong there. It is the one place that has ever felt like home to me. I went there by myself. I planted my roots there. I fell in love there. I want to live and die there.
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