The last light of the day

It's time

We'd gotten to know each other over the course of two nights back in August and this is what I wrote the morning she returned to New York:

"Robyn sat across from me, moving and speaking with such purpose, such exuberance. Her skin was fair, her eyes were dark, her lips painted red to match the red bow in her dark hair. She looked like a wicked snow white and I was taken with her beauty from the first moment that I saw her. I’m certain that she knew it, because it was hard for me to take my eyes off of her.

She’s a ballerina and she’s grown up a performer, so there’s a vibrance about her that I adore, an easiness with people which I appreciate. She described to me a photo shoot she’d done recently, just for the hell of it, and I knew that she was going to be hard to get out of my head even after she’d gone back to New York.

Evangeline (who’d introduced us) sat nearby, smiling knowingly as she watched us inch closer to one another. She gave us moments alone and played the perfect(ly devious) chaperone. It’d been her intention to bring this lovely creature to New Orleans to make her fall in love with the city. I was more than happy to help her in her cause.

When the night was over we stood in the front of their hotel. Evangeline left us alone when she went to get room keys. I hugged Robyn, thanked her for company while she thanked me for my hospitality. We parted for people coming through the doors and then we were back together again, having the kiss that we’d been building up to all night.

The doormen at the front laughed and yelled at us to get a room, but we kissed again in spite of them, before finally saying goodnight. I looked back through the closing doors to watch her go, watch her slip away gracefully through the lobby of the beautiful old New Orleans hotel.

I stepped out into the night air and walked down Bourbon Street. The things that I usually find so obnoxious couldn’t affect my mood. The raucous crowd, the music, the lights, the general rowdiness of the night couldn’t wipe the happiness off my face, couldn’t make me stop thinking of her lips, her eyes, her smile."

She came back to visit last week and we had a wonderful time together. She'll be back again two weeks from now and I'm looking forward to her return. In January she's moving here and I have to say that I'm quite thrilled about that. I don't know that I've so thoroughly enjoyed every moment that I've spent with someone like I have enjoyed my time with her...

I put my phone back into my pocket just as M. approached. She smiled and looked just a little puzzled as she studied my face.

“Are you in love?!” she asked.

“What makes you say that?” I responded, caught off guard.

”You look like you are. Whoever you were just talking to has you glowing! You look very happy right now and I think it’s awesome how obvious it is just by looking at you!”

I smiled and studied the red flocked wallpaper as I considered it.

I wear my heart on my sleeve so I shouldn’t be surprised that she could see the happiness in my face, even if she overstated it by referring to it as love. I was surprised however that something was apparent to M. before I’d even realized it myself; that no matter how much I’ve tried to not have any hopes until R. actually moves here this winter, the fact that she’s coming to visit in a few days has it’s place in my smile and I’m very (obviously) happy that I’ll get to see her again soon.

Bella

Supporting the arts

"Ahhh... the freewheeling, liberated 1920's... women finally get the vote, but apparently publishing anecdotes about childhood abuse, your brothers' sexual exploits with the family livestock, and sincere wishes that death and destruction might be visited upon all the members of your backwater Texas family would still get a girl institutionalized and kicked out of Great Britain.

Edna Gertrude Beasley is the most incendiary feminist author you've never heard of. Her autobiography, "My First Thirty Years," was banned upon its publication in 1925 for "gross obscenity," and most copies were destroyed in U.S. and British customs offices. Some eventually made it into circulation, though the governor of Texas later sent the Texas Rangers to seek out and seize any copies that had managed to infiltrate his great state."

This one woman show stars Veronica Russell who is a friend and fellow Noisician Coalition member. She's taking the show on a six city tour across Canada next summer and has she's started a Kickstarter project to raise money to participate in the Canadian Fringe theater festivals.

I saw the show performed here in New Orleans and it was wonderful. I believe in it enough to have donated to it and also to pander shamelessly to you. Have a look at the video and if you feel so inclined, follow the link and support the arts by donating to her KickStarter project!

Indian summer

Yesterday was a series of adventures, moments leading from one to the next. They were all different, all significant (to me) in one way or another.

I was up early, planning on meeting my friend Paul so that we could walk to the Superdome for my first Saint's game. I'd never seen them play live and I'd never set foot in the infamous Superdome, so it was a day for firsts. It was Paul's first game as well (he's from England, where they play football with their feet).

"So this is what Sunday morning in New Orleans looks like, eh?" he said as we walked through the quite morning streets. It made me think instantly of Johnny Cash's "Sunday Morning Coming Down".

We waited for Leo and another friend (also called Paul) at Cafe Adelaide, where I ordered a mimosa and Paul had a bloody mary with so many vegetables in it that it required pruning before he could drink it. We considered the fact that New Orleans has to be a great destination for away team fans, as opposed to, say; the appeal of New Orleanians going to Cleveland to see a game.

Leo and the other Paul arrived and we wandered to the Superdome, which was only a few blocks away. We talked excitedly about the differences in attendance from pre-Katrina until now and how Leo's been a season ticket holder for ages. While we climbed the stairs to go tot he terrace where we'd be sitting, people sang "When the Saints go marching in" and chanted "who dat" in a way that made me excited to be there. I considered that New Orleans has a beautiful ability to celebrate, even in a place that could have been tainted by tragedy. When I caught a glimpse of the field, I smiled brightly, happy to be there with the company I was keeping, having another unique New Orleans experience.

The game itself was a bit of a tragedy, but it was still fun to watch. Afterwards we walked home int he rain, stopping at an Irish pub to get a drink and then wandering on after the rain had ended so that we could get something to eat. We picked up and lost people along the way, but it was all good fun.

The entire night would turn out to be a changing cast of faces, with Paul being the one constant. We'd see our way from one place to the next and others would come and go, each of them leaving something memorable of themselves behind in the story of where we'd been all day. When Paul finally made his way home with his girlfriend, I wandered home myself.

I was enjoying the Indian summer, which allowed me to wear short sleeves into the evening for perhaps the last time this year. I could smell the little bit of dampness that the day of rain had left behind and it was nice. My footsteps were the only noise I could hear, which I noticed because such quiet is rare anywhere near the French Quarter. I thought about how it was time to carve a pumpkin and that I hadn't done that in years. I thought about how I wanted to dress up for Halloween, because it'd been a while since I'd really done that too. I thought about the places, the faces, the day that I'd seen, tasted, smelled and touched and I smiled, because this is my life and right now I can't imagine wanting any other.

Exquisite distractions

I had no expectations for the day, which I find is often for the best. In having nothing in particular to accomplish, I managed to fill my day with exquisite distractions.

Autumn

I've moved into a new apartment, something smaller, quieter, more to my liking. I had a wonderful space over a very loud bar that got louder as the year crept on and finally I relented and had to move. I lived there for fifteen months, which is the longest I've lived under any one roof since I was three years old. It was the first place that was my own after my divorce. I didn't really want to go, but I'm happier with where I am now; it's better for me.

The moving process was challenging as is often the case, but I'm sort of a professional at this now. I have sort of decided though that this is a profession I want to retire from; the moving of all of one's possessions from one place to the next. I've decided that my next move will only happen when I'm ready to sell all my possessions and live the gypsy life.

I haven't been back to the doctors office because of the move, but it's something I know that I need to do soon. I've been making excuses about monetary and time constraints, but the real reason I haven't been back is because I didn't want any bad news until I'd at least settled the move. Not that I have any particular reason to believe the news will be bad on the follow up, but, you know; one thing at a time.

I've been back on a Nina Simone kick the last few days. She's the soundtrack of autumn in my mind. At some point in my life she became the music that accompanies the transition of summer into fall and as we've gotten our first cold front she's been creeping into the corners of my mind. Last night was the first chilly evening and today I turned off the air conditioning, opened the windows and played "Black is the color of my true loves hair".

thank you for the lovely dream

I’m moving soon, but I’m not going far. It’s time for a new apartment, one that’s a little quieter (I live above a bar), has different walls to shoot against, will inspire something new. I’ve been rushing to finish all the editing that needs to be done before I start unplugging things, packing them away.

Thoughts of moving have seeped into my dreams. Last night I dreamt that the only thing left in my apartment was my bed, which is massive and has been described as a ‘trap’, because of its opulence. In my dream, I opened the door to my bedroom and the hazy light of early morning creeped into the room. The absence of objects that have their usual place made the room seem even larger than it does when filled with all the familiar things that I possess.

In this dream; amidst the impossible number of pillows, tangled in the sheets, you smiled at me over your shoulder. You slid one bare leg across the other slowly, bringing your foot to rest at the back of the knee you’d uncovered in your movement. You were otherwise nearly perfectly still and there was a calmness about you that I wanted to appreciate nearly as much as I wanted to disturb it. I could see the well defined line of your back and I wanted to place my lips there, softly…

"If I could write out my own dream, for the next time that I sleep.."

Summer is coming to an end; I can finally feel it. Fall is around the corner and I'm waiting for it as patiently as I can. Fall is, after all, my favorite season.

I've committed to stay here in New Orleans for another year and that, coupled with the change of season, makes me a little restless to travel. The fall in particular always finds me wanting to go back to where I came from. I want to see the leaves explode in brilliant colors, watch them rain from the trees and walk over them, feel them crunch beneath my feet.

I want to go back to the Paint Creek Cider Mill and look at the cigar-store Indian like statue of chief Pontiac as I eat fresh, warm donuts and drink cider. I want to watch the wheel of the mill turn with fall of the water.

I want to see the family that I've been removed from for too long and make up for lost time. I want to see the friends that I've grown apart from in both lifestyle and geography. I want to drive past the places where we all used to live and look at them, appreciate them, in a way that is entirely different after all the things that I've seen, all the things I've done.

I'll never live in Michigan again, this I know. I don't visit it often enough, I'm sure of that too. I do however miss it from time to time, but even more so, I miss the people that I've left behind there.

The summer comes to an end here in the south and I know that fall has already begun in the north. I'll always be a wanderer, leaving little pieces of my heart in every place I've ever called home, giving big pieces of it to the people that I've loved along the way.

I don't mind getting caught in the rain

It's the last day of treatment for me and I'm thrilled about that. It wasn't as bad in some ways as I might have thought and in others it was worse. I have a mantra though, inked into my arm in a place that I see and am reminded of it all the time. "Everything is beautiful".

The treatment broke down the bad cells and today my body starts mending itself. It'll knit itself back together neatly and in a few years time the little scars will fade and it'll be a distant memory. Today I'll go back to exercising like I did before and feeding my body everything it needs to be stronger. I'd taken a moment away from all of that so i wouldn't over-exert myself, but today is my green light and I intend to run.

I took a trip to Las Vegas last week to take care of a few things and get some work done. I've finally figured out how to take the next step in transitioning my career and that's what I'm working on now. I've been inspired and the models that I've chosen to work with on this project are only furthering my inspiration.

I went and looked at an apartment here in New Orleans the other day. I know that I've been saying that I'm leaving for a while now, but the doctor I see is here and frankly, so is most of what I appreciate in life. I met someone recently who is thinking of moving here and she's the one final incentive that I needed to just stay, at least a little while longer. Goodbye California dreaming; I'm staying here for now.

The apartment I went to see is on Esplanade Avenue, which is someplace I've dreamed of living. It's got wood floors and a chandelier as well as a balcony and a fireplace. It's much smaller than the apartment I live in now, but I don't have a need for so much space.

I got caught in the rain on my way to see it and had left my umbrella at home. I raced beneath balconies, smiling like a child as I attempted to dodge the fat drops that fell on my face, in my hair, cooling me off from the sweltering afternoon heat. I didn't mind getting caught in the summer rain; I rarely do.

The little old man who owns the building showed me the garden as we dodged big puddles and wiped the last of the rain from our faces. He told me about the parties he throws when the Night Blooming Cereus open up twice a year.

I've been torn for a while about where I should be right now, mostly for professional reasons. Standing in the rain listening to the little old man talk about the flowers, I looked around the garden and felt for the first time in months that I already am where I belong.

warm welcomes

One of the greatest things about New Orleans is that if you leave for a few days or for a few years, when you come back people say "welcome home". Everybody is from someplace else, but that's what New Orleans is to them and that's what it will always feel like to me.

circles

I'm on my way back to Las Vegas for a few days for business. I have some things I need to sort out, some work I need to catch up on and I've put it off for as long as I could. I'm photographing familiar models for a project that I've had in mind for a while now and working on transitioning into the next stage of my career, which is something I feel is important for me right now.

I was in a holding pattern for a while before all of my recent concerns made me change course. It was one of those moments in life where you can't make a decision because none of the options were more desirable than the others, nothing seemed like a step forward, more like a lateral move or a move away from what I wanted, but toward what I thought I should be doing.

Then something desirable came along and changed everything...

I've had several discussions with people lately about signs, particularly how I don't believe in them and think they are reserved for people with a faith in fate or divine forces that I don't possess. However, even I have to say that there's been enough doors opening at just the right moment lately to make me at least reluctant to look a gift horse in the mouth if there are such things as 'signs'.

If you asked me to paint my night last night, this is what I'd paint

The longest day

I dressed and looked out the window. The dark clouds had lingered long enough that I shouldn't have been surprised when they opened up. Eight blocks to the streetcar; I would still do it as long as the rain let up just a little.

I picked out music, arranged a play list as I laced my shoes, buttoned my shirt, slipped my keys and wallet into my pockets. I watched myself in the full length mirror as I put the ear buds into my ears, behind my long, dark hair.

The weekend before. the doctor had invited me out to dinner and I'd been hoping I'd get the biopsy results (he said he might give them personally if they came in sooner than expected). I've always enjoyed his company though, having known him personally, so either way, it'd be nice to spend time in a different atmosphere than the insular one that I keep to so frequently. When we were finished, he invited me to his house to show me the new line of skin products he had developed, which he was very proud of. As I told him it was time to say goodnight, he made his move. He tried to kiss me and when I backed away, he told me it was alright and then he tried again.

I thought about about what signs I might have given him that this was alright. Had I eluded to something that would lead him to believe that I was interested? I'd been to his house before with his boyfriend, with my ex wife and certainly under circumstances that were less complicated personally and medically.

As I was leaving the house, he made mention of my shirt. It was a white button down that I wear often. "Cute" he said at he tugged at the snaps over the breast pockets. He asked if this would mean that I'd be afraid of him after and I'd told him no. I didn't make any promises about being comfortable though.

The last week I've been considering all of this. The test results, the doctor that would be giving them to me, what both of it meant and what I needed to do about all of it. I tried to remain calm in the face of all of it and I think I was a success for the most part, at least outwardly. Inwardly I felt it affecting my patience. I tried to tell a few people but it came out as a joke with a dark undertone more than anything.

I walked down the stairs, grabbed my umbrella and walked out into the sprinkling rain. I walked the eight blocks to the streetcar and noticed my reflection in the window of the jewelry shop nearby; I was wearing the same shirt the doctor had complimented me on and I suddenly wished that I wasn't. I'd chosen it for it's accessibility for the tattoo I'd planned on getting later in the day. I lamented it's choice as I climbed the streetcar and Clint Mansell's "Together we will live forever" came to life in my headset.

I took my seat halfway down the line, the music calming me, bringing me peace. I sat and watched trees and houses pass by outside of my windows. I thought of the last few things that people had said to me and noticed the absence of a few things I'd hoped to hear. They weren't all related to where I was going or what I was doing, they were just the last distractions I let go of as I lost myself in the music, in the scenery of New Orleans, in the clicking of the rails as we stopped and started, the chime of the little bell and the sound of the streetcar steps made when folding up and down as new people got on and others got off.

I got lost in it all and was at Napoleon avenue before I knew it. I walked the few blocks to the tall office building where the doctor waited and I tucked my umbrella into a plastic sleeve when I got inside the lobby. I pressed the button, rode the few floors up by myself, looking into my own reflection in the brassy mirrored doors in front of me. When they parted, I went inside and wrote down my name, took the key for the bathroom but only made it to the fountain where I couldn't get seem to get enough of the cold water that arched it's way through the air to my lips.

I went back into the waiting room and I was called before I could be seated. I left the key at the counter as the woman behind the glass smiled at me in a way that seemed out of character. I was asked to take a seat on the exam table and I did, palms sweating a little;one ear bud still piping music into my ear as I looked out at the New Orleans skyline from a view over the tops of houses and trees on Napoleon ave. I sat, quietly for some time, eying the things in the room and then finally the doctor came in with the results and I stopped the music.

He smiled as though nothing had happened and so did I. He read out loud that the biopsy had come back negative of what he suspected and the other areas that he had been concerned about would be treated with some form of topical chemo which would give them a better idea if or how they needed to be further treated before he continued the invasive, scarring treatment they had started. I was out of the office in a matter of moments, a hug before parting and the woman at the desk told me that the visit was free of charge for the day.

I made my way out and called my tattoo artist, gave him an idea as to where to meet me and he did. I called my mother on the walk there and my father as well. I shot off a few text messages and was relieved that the most threatening of the list of concerns had been stricken from the list. I carried with me an envelope of variations and paraphrasing of a Kurt Vonnegut quote that I wanted tattooed on the inside of my arm and after the news, I knew which one it would be. I slide it from the envelope and an hour later the sentiment was etched into my skin:

"Everything is Beautiful"

My new tattoo

So it goes

Today I'm going in for my results for the biopsies. I'm having a little trouble sleeping, which isn't unusual for me and should be expected given the circumstances.

Directly following the appointment, I'm going to go get some tattoo work down. I'm getting a Kurt Vonnegut tattoo on my bicep from his book Slaughterhouse Five. The original quote refers to the epitaph that the character Billy Pilgrim has picked out (borrowed) for himself : “Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt”.

I'm on the fence about the tense I should use and if I should use the complete quote. I'm thinking also of having simply "Everything is beautiful" inscribed. I suppose I'll have a greater inclination when I get my results back. I'll post photos either way. All input is welcome.

Today will be a strange day for me. I don't expect to be myself and I'll apologize in advance if I'm not. I think I'm a pretty open person and that I'm usually pretty available to friends and family, but every now and then you just need a moment to yourself. If I take that moment today, I hope you'll understand.

I need more sundays like this

M. played the piano while K. and I watched, entranced as her fingers made their way effortlessly across the keys. She apologized for playing sloppily, blaming the champagne and the lack of recent practice, but all we saw was perfection. When she mentioned that she'd been in a metal band, we listened to recordings of that, impressed by her talent there as well.

I sat nearby, my eye's drifting between my two beautiful friends appreciating their similarities and their differences. I thought about the men in both of their lives that had recently caused them grief and labeled those men fools in my head.

The daytime adventure had drawn to a close and it was time to catch the streetcar back. K. and I walked the few blocks to the place where it would stop and she commented on the stars, on how she used to know the names of all of them. It made me adore her just a little more; this admission, this little insight into who she was when she was younger. There were no benches at the stop so she reclined on the sidewalk, her black dress carefully laid beneath her, her pale skin shinning from the heat of the night, a bright yellow flower in her hair. She talked about the moon and it took great effort to turn away from her to appreciate it.

When the streetcar finally came we revelled in the breeze that came in through the open windows, reversing the seats in front of us so we could stretch our legs out in front of us. The lights flickered as the guide wires above us changed lines when we took corners and those were our favorite moments. Finally we reached Canal street, which was the end of the line.

"Want to take it all the way around again, just for the hell of it?" she asked.

Less than three minutes

I excused myself for a moment after showing the amazingly sweet message that a friend had sent me to Jenny and I walked out into the streets. It was hot and sticky, but I needed a moment alone and so I cut a path through the New Orleans night with the sentiments I'd just read making my eyes a little glassy.

I passed the cathedral on my way around the block, but I didn't look up, I looked at my shoes, at the well-worn, uneven stones beneath my feet and I listened to the noise fade a little behind me. A taxi rounded the corner without stopping for the sign and so I paused on the street corner and lifted my eyes past the driver and up at the windows that were lit. For a moment I imagined a new life for myself on the other side of one of them and then continued back to where I'd started.

I came back to the bar and sat down where my bottled water was still waiting, dripping onto the copper top of the long bar. I took a drink of it, wiped away the condensation and rolled the bottle across the back of my neck for a moment. I smiled a little at Jenny and rejoined the conversation, but my mind wandered back to a single, simple, beautiful line that had been added as post-script to the message..."I know that waiting sucks, I will make it a point to wait with you.". I smiled because it was true on all counts.

I'd like to be here today.

"So it goes"

I had a biopsy today, which I wasn't expecting. I'd been under watch for something else and as it turns out, there was enough reason for the doctor to take a snip of me and send it in for examination.

This doctor; he's a friend of mine. I trust him implicitly. We've gone to dinner before, he's been to my house, I've been to his, but it's been a long time since we've been quite that close. He put the sample of what was worrying him into a little vial and then wrote his newest phone number down on a piece of paper and suggested we should go to lunch soon. It was the careful manner in which he approached the suggestion that made me think that he was trying to go about things in a very specific way...

I've got a week to think about this, about the way it was handled and what it all means. I tried to go home and rest and an hour long nap gave to restlessness. I found myself in my local bar after a conversation with my mother led me to not want to sit in the silence of my apartment. I'm the old fashioned sort of guy that doesn't (typically) believe in drinking before dinner, but today seems like a day for an exception.

I'm getting better acquainted with my couch tonight; it's someplace that I don't spend enough time.

I've been moving through this week in a dream-like state, trying not to think too hard about where I'm going or when. I've been living in the moment, feeling like my life is a Vonnegut novel; all connected when I take a step back but slightly out of context when I examine each moment separately.

I took a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi today and was home early. I watched terrible movies from my couch and was vaguely distracted by the rain tapping against my living room windows. I worked a little from my laptop and researched train tickets to Austin, flights to Portland, Florida, Las Vegas and New York and at opportunities here in New Orleans. I looked for an (easy) solution to avoid where I'm probably headed next (Los Angeles), but I already knew there wasn't one. I want to consider every option carefully, make sure the next adventure carries me far enough toward my eventual goals that I'll be happy long term and not just in the moment (I already know how to do that).

In the meantime, I'm enjoying New Orleans. And my couch.

San Francisco

I had a really good time in San Francisco, despite a rocky moment of disappointment that followed my foolish optimism that Sara and I could maybe be friends. I'd toyed the idea of wether or not I'd even see her, but I do want us to be friends and so when she asked if I would, I agreed to. It went well, like it always does in the beginning, but it disintegrated quickly when she got jealous of a friend that I was going to spend time with. As it turns out she missed out on my friendship, which seems like a bigger loss than me missing out on hers.

Kacey and I spent a lot of time together on the trip and I was very happy to have her company. She's a doll and I'm happy to have gotten to know her even better while in San Francisco. It was her birthday the last day I was in town and we started the celebration the night before. We brought a little bit of New Orleans to San Francisco and had a really great time.


We rode the carousel and took pictures of each other. We went to a friends bar and drank with him. We went to the places I’d loved before and explored new places entirely. We played with nearly everything at the Musée Mécanique, walked the pier, laughed at the fact that there is a church whose address is 666 (DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe were married there) and explored the city with the enthusiasm. She was really perfect company.

I'm back in New Orleans now, reflecting on the past, considering the future and grateful for the people that I have in my life presently. Everything doesn't always turn out the way that I want it to, but sometimes the best thing that can happen to you is to not get what you thought you wanted.

I have quite a few things to say about this trip Trip to San Francisco I'm on, but it's not quite over yet and I'll save those thoughts until it is. In the meantime, here's Kacey at Musée Mécanique!

just a year

"I didn't know you were married! How long ago was the divorce" said the woman seated next to me at the bar. We are acquaintances, so it didn't surprise me to hear her say that she hadn't known as much about me. It did surprise me that I had to reach for the answer.

"It'll be a year.....next week", I said.

It occurred to me just then that I was approaching the one year anniversary of the date my divorce was made final. I also realized that without even considering it, I'd agree to take a business trip, one that coincides with another friends trip, to the same city on the other side of the country that my ex-wife now lives in. I'll be there on the anniversary of our divorce.

Sara found me online the other day, knowing that I'd be coming there and said "so will you be too busy, or will I get to see you while you are here?". I told her it would be a shame to travel all that way and not at least meet for coffee, say hello. It's always been in my nature to try and keep at least some semblance of peace between myself and those I've loved and lost. I wonder if it's the right time for both of us though. I hope she's well and worry that I might be a disruption, a distraction, in her coming to terms with it all. I don't want that for either of us.

I sat listening to music today, getting over a bad case of food poisoning, watching the afternoon rain slide down the windows, waiting for the skies to clear so I could shop for the things I'd need for this trip. I thought about why I'd come back to New Orleans and realized that I'd done just what I wanted to while I was here, but that I was ready to move on. I don't know precisely where, but I know it's time.

I've had my head turned recently in a way that I haven't before (and I don't mind admitting that despite the impossibility of it going anywhere, I didn't mind having it turned). She cooked for me, sang for me and it felt like she really saw me and not just the possibility of what I could do for her, who i could be for her.

The woman responsible for turning my head as I mentioned above is on another continent now and I'm not sure when (or if) I'll see her again. She's been my muse though; inspiring me to believe that I can in fact, find someone that will make we want again. It's been a while since I've really wanted and even in the absence of that which I want but don't have, I'm happy, grateful to have wanted again.

just a moment

I slipped my fingers inside the holes in the crocheted tights that wrapped the legs that were draped over my own, touched the soft skin that covered the knee that was bent over my thigh.

I love simple moments like those; one's that come easily, naturally, but leave an impression long after it's gone.

Kim Boekbinder

The video that I was a part of this weekend was for an artist called Kim Boekbinder, who I've have the pleasure of becoming friends with over the last week. She's currently self-producing her own first solo album after a successful run with her former band Vermillion Lies

She's a great artist and shares my love of New Orleans, so of course I want to see her take over the world. I'm a great admirer of people that pursue life with a passion so it stands to reason that I have a great deal of admiration for Kim Boekbinder.

The room was packed and there were people we knew all around us. The music was loud and we both held a drink in each hand, people feeding them to us despite the fact that we'd both clearly said we didn't really want one.

All I wanted to happen was for both of us to loose a drink, free a hand, so I could wrap hers in mine. We stood against the wall, both of us talking to other people and every time her flesh brushed mine, it was like the desert getting a little rain.

Rain or shine

I stood on the levee on Saturday afternoon working on a music video; standing in as the upright bass player. The song was about New Orleans and how it isn't easy to leave. I was wearing a black suit in the summer sun, dripping sweat and listening to the song repeat as we did multiple takes. I agreed with the lyrics as I swayed with the bass, the pink bow that was clipped to my tie blowing in the gentle breeze, my long hair blowing across my face as I looked at the horizon through my dark glasses.

Her pink hair was so vibrant as she stood in front of me, her voice soft as she played along with her own music. My mind and eyes drifted as I plucked at the strings, appreciating that she'd put into words the way I feel about New Orleans. A beautiful group of colorful people danced and played behind us around an old Thunderbird and everyone agreed; it was a good day.


I'm looking toward the future, trying to plan the next really big adventure. Somehow, this moment feels like the start of it.

In unrelated news, my neighbors think I'm strange because I always open my windows and doors when it rains:

Time to wake

I went to the doctor yesterday and got a refill for the medication I take for insomnia. I'm always reluctant to take anything, but after long periods of sleepless nights, I'll relent. My doctor is a friendly man, we talk about photography and he asks my advice about technical thing. We are on a first name basis and when he calls me, that's all he uses. He'd asked me which of the two things we'd tried last year had worked the best and I told him so he refilled my prescription and I was on my way.

I went home and planned on spending the day being productive, getting everything that I needed done before laying down into bed with a movie. I took half the dose prescribed and slowly I started to find sleep.

I was woken with the realization that I hadn't shut off my phone. It rang and I missed it. It rang again and I reached for it. It was one of the few people that I'd answer the phone for at that point and I knew something must be wrong.

"I don't know where I am" she said after I said hello.

She went on to explain that someone had slipped something into her drink and that she didn't know where she was and couldn't drive. She told me she needed my help.

I dressed quickly, still a little uneven from the pills I'd taken to sleep, working against their purpose of putting me back down. I walked slowly down the stairs, my equilibrium slowly returning to me as I hit the humid night and moved along the concrete as quickly as I could.

"The long light" was the only landmark she gave me but I was certain I knew what that meant. I wandered to Toulouse, which has the light I've often complained about, and found her truck there, sitting still in the night. I peered through the glass as she was draped over the seat.

She was surprised to see me. Whatever she'd been slipped was making it really hard for her to pull it together. I got her into the passenger seat and pulled her car off the street and into the parking garage on the next block.

I got her out and started walking her toward my apartment, telling her that she could call her boyfriend and tell him to come there and get her. She was confused as to where we were going or how we'd gotten that far and I had to stop more than once along the way to tell her what was happening and get us off the streets, which aren't always a safe place at night.

We got about a block from my house when a police office friend of mine who owns a bar up the road stopped and asked if everything was ok. I told it was and that we were meeting her ride. He asked where her ride was and when it would be there and it pulled up just then.

I'd been fighting back the effect of the sleep meds, pushing myself into overdrive in order to make sure she was safe and I felt surreal as I loaded her into her boyfriends car, who barely looked at me when i did. I handed him the valet ticket and struggled to give the street names where it was located through the descending cloud. I closed the door and he left quickly, followed by the police offices truck and I walked the last block home by myself.

I walk quickly, and this was no exception. My mind wandered and I looked around constantly to be certain I hadn't overlooked anyone following me in the darkness down a street that can often be dangerous. I picked out the door key before I hit the steps and turned to make sure no one followed me into the stairwell before slipping it into the lock. I closed the door behind me when I was safely inside and made sure it was locked.

I pulled off my shirt and climbed the uneven stairs, breathing a little heavily as I approached the top. I took off my shoes at the top of the stairs, not bothering to line them up as I normally would. I felt the cool air radiating from my office and so I went there first, it being the coldest room in the house. I finished getting undressed, pulled on a pair of shorts and got into bed, just the way I'd been before I got the phone call. The sleep medication made me doubt for a moment that I'd ever let the bed, made me think that the entire thing had been a dream. I reached for my phone to see if it had been but I'd left it in my office and instead I gave into sleep.

La pluie

I've had a bit of insomnia again lately. Lot's of endless nights and punctuated sleep, all caused by my ceaseless mind. I wake to the slightest sounds; my phone vibrating in the same room will wake me so I've taken to leaving it in the next. I'm tired and can see it in my face right now.

I try and nap here and there, but I'm terrible at it. The closest I come Is laying still when the afternoon rain comes. When I see the dark clouds start rolling in, I feel drawn to my bed the way a normal person would when the lights go out over the city at night.

This afternoon Elly moved her things into her new apartment and I went to help her put together her furniture so she could sleep there tonight. The afternoon rain hung over head as I walked back to my own apartment, which was empty and quiet and all mine once again. I climbed the stairs and opened the french doors in my bedroom as I pulled my damp shirt overhead and used it to mop my face.

I climbed into my bed, the sheets having been freshly washed earlier that morning (clean sheets are one of my favorite things) and laid across it diagonally. I closed my eyes until i heard the rain hitting the iron that laces all the buildings around me and then I opened them again. I didn't sleep, but I got as close as I might come, thanks to the rain.

I looked over at her in the dark, the light from the stage softly illuminating her face and she looked beautiful. She looked back at me just as I was thinking that and she smiled.

I have this hope that for once everything should be as simple as that, but it never is, is it?

Afternoon rain makes me happy

tourist in my own life

I hadn't expected to come back to New Orleans so soon. My adventure in Montreal was supposed to have taken up my summer and I said goodbye before I left. I'm back now, having realized quickly that Montreal wasn't the place for me, that the offer wasn't a good fit, that it would just be a vacation, a change of scenery for the summer.I don't mind a change of scenery, mind you, but if I'm going to take a vacation, there are other places I'd rather be.

I returned from Montreal without telling many people I was coming home because I'd only just left. I also wanted to come back into my life quietly while I decided what to do next. I wanted an idea in mind before I started getting the questions, wanted the answer before people even asked.

I've come home, but having said my goodbyes before and knowing that I'll be leaving again soon has made me feel like a tourist in my own life. I sleep in my familiar bed, see the familiar faces, got to the familiar places, but it all seems a little strange to me. It was easy being a stranger in a strange land, but it's difficult to be one in someplace so familiar.

I've a house guest here at the moment and having here here has made it difficult for me in the fact that I feel like I'm sharing this space that I'm used to occupying alone, but it's all so temporary because she'll be gone soon too. She sleeps away the day because she works nights and I keep to my office and bedroom to let her, making me feel even more like a visitor here. I enjoy her company, but I need my own life back for a moment so I can relax, breathe, figure out what next, where next.

That's what I'll do too; relax, breathe, figure out what next, where next. That's what I always do. This isn't the first time I've been a stranger in any land; strange or familiar. Given my wanderlust, it won't be the last either.

Hello again, New Orleans

I'm home, for the moment.

The deal I was offered in Montreal wasn't good enough for me to stay or even go back to. I enjoyed my time there well enough, but it isn't home, isn't the place for me.

One of my favorite people in the world came back into town last night. She and her husband are here for a wedding and he was attending the bachelor party so she spent the night wandering the quarter with me.

It was a quiet night in the French Quarter all in all, so we left the pub after a long talk and found a discarded croquet set at the curb. We played in the streets through the quarter and into the marigny. We talked and we walked before both of us finally lost our balls, but we carried our mallets for the rest of the night. We watched the sun come up and found out that we’d long outlasted the bachelor party. It was a good night.

It feels like every day in New Orleans is a story worth writing about, but I haven't had the time while playing catch-up to put it all down. I've got a few of them in my head that I need to tell though, so I'll be doing that soon....

Montreal

My trip to Montreal is coming to and end and I've got to go home to New Orleans to pack my things, decide what next. I've been here almost a month and I've enjoyed my time. It's a little different to approach Montreal as a place to visit than it is to consider it a place to live. I've no doubt that anyone visiting here would absolutely love it.

My business reasons for having come to Montreal haven't come together as I might of hoped. Different possibilities have arisen since I've been here, but they've come together late in the stages of my decision making and may not be enough reason for me to come back for the summer. I'd like to, but I think that economically it might be the equivalent to taking the summer off, which is something I can't really do right now.

Another part of my reason for hesitating is that they want a piece of the projects that I worked on with my ex wife. I can understand why from their perspective it's worth continuing with, but from mine, I'd rather let go of the past and stop reconstructing it. It's time for something else, so I'm trying to show them how and why they can believe in my future rather than trying to sell them my past. It's not an easy agreement to come to, but everyone involved is fair, so I'm sure at least that part of it will work out.

I've found the apartment I'd stay in if I do stay. It's small and on the third floor of a building that reminds me somewhat of Paris or New York, with balconies in the read, potted plants lining them, laundry lines all over. The girl that's subletting it seems like someone that I'd like to know; she's beautiful and artistic, calm and focused. She's an aerialist and we fell into conversation easily as we had a lot of things in common in the way of interests in performance arts. She told me about the circus school where I could go to learn aerial and it made me excited to be in Montreal, made me eager to stay.

I imagined her coming back to check on the apartment from time to time. I imagined her sitting and talking with me about the performances she had planned, telling me secrets about where to go and what to do. I imagined getting to know her better as we climbed the silks, her patiently teaching me. I imagined sitting in the apartment alone, but feeling that she was always there because it spoke so heavily of her. For all the reasons that I imagined and for some that I haven't, I wanted to stay there; it felt like the right place for me if I were to be here in Montreal.

I've written variations of the letter to her, some ending with how I'm sorry that I can't take the apartment, others with some sort of conditional agreement as to how I would. I've got the day to decide which version I'll send and then it'll be time to move again; the direction being the only thing in question.

Notre-Dame de Montréal

man on a train

Sometimes when I’m on the metro standing next to someone else who is listening to music while we ride along silently, I’m tempted to plug their headphones into my jack and mine into theirs. Who knows how different the day might be after that.

Every time I ride the train, it's like a little adventure to me. I've always been fascinated by the sheer number of people that you pass along the way and I like to imagine where they are coming from, where they are going to. I fell in love with the Metro in Paris and my affair with it has carried over to Montreal. I feel like waiting for the train to arrive is sort of like standing in line at an amusement park...

I was thinking today of an afternoon in Paris. It'd been raining outside earlier in the day, but had finally let up and so I headed into heart of the city from the apartment we were staying at near Porte de Vincennes. I was standing facing the doors and when they opened a petite blond woman wearing sunglasses and carrying and umbrella stepped on. She looked at me and walked toward where I was standing, turned her back to me at the very last moment. She stood so close to me that I could smell her hair. She smelled wonderful; like summer and rain and just a hint of the soap she's used. She smelled clean and fresh and so that's how the day felt for me. The train rocked and so did she, resting lightly against me when we the train rounded bends. She left the train before I did and as she turned the corner I could see she was smiling, but she didn't look back.

I was walking down the street and was halfway down the block when I noticed the music. I went back to where the man sat on the corner playing the clarinet, sure he was playing "House of the rising sun". I stopped for a moment on the corner opposite of him and had a moment of homesickness for New Orleans and crossed the street when he finished the song, interrupted him just as he'd started the next.

I asked him in broken french what he'd played and he said "Scarborough Fair". I dropped a dollar coin in his case after thanking him and walked across the street, while he started the song over.

I'd been hearing things, wishfully as it would seem and thinking of my home, thinking of New Orleans.

I'm standing here outside your door

I arrived in Montreal after a long, sleepless night. I'd had every intention of getting on a flight early and sleeping through most of it. I'd stayed out the night before, saying some goodbye's that were very important to me to have said. There were just a few people too many and my attention was divided. I wanted my night to be like any other night, but I knew better.

I said the goodbye's that other people needed to hear or the occasional "I'll be back one day" that some people wanted. I had at least a small moment with everyone, but I'd have liked to have had more, to have the moment I had in mind for each of them, said the goodbye I'd imagined and sent them away with the hope and love I had for them.

I knew better though, so I took what I could. A hug that lingered, a kiss on the forehead, a handshake with the bartender, a wave from across the bar, passing words as I headed out the door, walked down the street for the last time that I'd really belong to New Orleans (at least for a while). I said "I love you" as often a I could and meant it each time.

Eleanor could have stayed. She could have kept playing her game and let me go back to finish my packing, have my last few moments alone. She didn't though; she followed me home. She cracked jokes between telling me that I wasn't allowed to really be leaving for good and threatened to cry while insulting me for deserting.

I got home to find that my flight had been canceled and they'd booked me on a slightly later one. I knew it wasn't enough time to really go back out, so I said I'd stay, told Eleanor go, but she didn't. We sat on the couch and I put a pillow in her lap and laid my head on her as she warned me it was my own fault if her bony hips cut me. I dozed on and off while we watched television together and talked about the many possibilities of the future. She fell asleep, perfectly still, sitting upright.

I woke to my alarm, showered, packed my bags and went into the early morning light. I called her name softly and she woke. I said I was leaving and I slid my arms around her, beneath her, lifting her just a little before kissing her on the forehead and telling her I'd miss her.

I called a cab and got up to leave and she came and gave me another hug. I looked around the house at things I'd have to do when I returned and it seemed a little overwhelming, but that's part of the excitement of a new adventure, isn't it? Feeling a little overwhelmed. I don't know about you, but if I don't have that little moment of doubt, I'd feel more like it was travel and not like adventure...

I stood outside in the balmy morning, waiting for my cab. My bags stacked on the curb and the lack of sleep making everything even more surreal than it already was. I sent a message to the one person I'd felt like I'd said less of a goodbye to than I should have (I held back a little for her own good). I climbed into the cab when it arrived and tried to listen to the cab driver talk about the state of affairs of New Orleans, but I couldn't concentrate or contribute past a polite mumble because my mind was elsewhere, many other places and that's where it wanted to be.

It was a long day of traveling, but I finally made it to Montreal at just after dusk. It was cold and so I grinned stupidly as I opened my suitcase and took out something a little warmer to wear. Frederic was there to meet me just after and he pointed out landmarks to me which I stared at through glassy eyes. He listened to the hockey game being broadcast in French as we rode to the studio to watch the rest of it with friends.

We went out to eat when the game was over we went out for a while and it was good to have friends welcoming me to this new city. It seemed more colorful, less cold and filled with adventure thanks to them. Having them welcome me to Montreal made saying goodbye to New Orleans just a little less heartbreaking and I was grateful for that, grateful for them.

It's a rainy afternoon in New Orleans and I'm laying in bed with the french doors open that lead out to the balcony. I'm listening to Yann Tiersen and watching the breeze that blows into the room make the curtains dance just a little.

I'm taking an inventory off all the packing, prepping, work that needs to be done and I'll do it, but I think that I'm going to lay here and enjoy this, for just a little while longer.

The long road ahead and the one behind.

I took a road trip recently, backtracking along the route I used to get from Las Vegas to New Orleans. It was a much easier trip this time than it was the last. The last time hurt, despite it being a move in the right direction. I had nearly 2000 miles to think about the end of my marriage, starting over again, the complications of what I do having an effect on my ability to have a normal life or even find someone that would understand mine is all of it's unconventionality.

This time I made the journey with a friend; someone who despite all of our obvious differences in age, lifestyle, outlook, has become a very good friend (one of my best, really). She made the trip with me and this time around it wasn't so hard, but I was thankful for her company because that's part of what it was easier. We had a few moments of tension, as is going to be the case with any two friends in close proximity for any length of time, but all in all, it was a good trip. I took her to places I'd liked to go in the past, introduced her to a good friend and saw the place I'd lived once before with fresh eyes, new perspective.



I'm packing now, because my time here in New Orleans is up. I came back here to recharge, live a little and gather my thoughts on what to do next. I needed to break the cycle that i'd established in Las Vegas and get away from the things that hadn't worked for me while I was there. New Orleans was the place that I wanted to do that, because I felt like I needed to reclaim it as my city ; that's what it was before Sara, that's what it is again.

New Orleans is what I needed, what I wanted and I think it's been good for me. It's shown me the sort of love I'd hoped for and also made me give true, deep thought to what I want out of life. I'll always love New Orleans for this; for being my place to learn to live again, despite the fact that I hadn't even realized it's what I needed to do.

I've got more of the world to see though. There are more adventures waiting for me. I've got places to go, people to meet and things to do. I'm leaving New Orleans in a week, but I'll never really put it behind me, because I love it too much to really say goodbye. It's part of who I am, and I'm really, truly grateful that it is.

yes, please.

In the middle of Audubon Park, K. and I were waving wands that formed huge bubbles. A monk approached with an older woman who was fascinated by the bubbles that we made, chased, popped, blew back into the sky as they fell. I looked at her and said “You’d really like to give it a try wouldn’t you?” and she said excitedly “I do!”.

I passed the wand to her and she spun in circles, laughing the entire time while the monk smiled softly from beneath the cloth he was using to keep the sun off of his head. She tried to hand him the wand but he politely declined. We coaxed him gently into taking the wand and when the bubbles streamed from it his face lit up.

I watched K. as she hunted down her own bubbles, popping the ones she’d blown into the air; the flower in her straw hat blowing in the wind as she ran after them, her dress hugging her frame when she lept, twisted in the wind to reclaim each glimmering globe.

I looked back and forth between her and the smiling monk and I thought “you can never have enough moments like this in your life”.

I wish I were in Paris

Today I wish I was in Paris. I want to walk out the door of the little apartment in the 20th arrondissement and hear the clicking of the tricky lock which seemed to sound the start of so many adventures. I want the feeling that I had when I was sliding my hand along the railing that spiraled downwards with the winding steps, moving so quickly that it almost made me dizzy when I looked over the edge to the floor below. No matter how composed I was, I always felt like I was exploding out onto the street from the dark little hallway because of the excitement I had at exploring the city, getting lost and then finding myself again.

Today I want to get off the Metro at Hôtel de Ville and cross to the Île de la Cité from the far side, make my way through the square in front of Notre Dame and look up at the images of saints as I make my to the bridge and cross over to the left bank.

Today I want to go to Shakespeare and Company and browse through the books, have that thrill of knowing that I won’t have the time to make it through every one of them that I want to read and make myself choose just one, which I’ll probably finish at least half of while eating lunch.

Today, I wish I were in Paris.

The flowers are starting to bloom. I take walks in the afternoon, listening to music and thinking about what is the next best step for me might be. My pace matches the tempo of the music, the path that I chose while walking determined by how fast or slow the song will carry me.

I used a vintage typewriter from the 1940’s to type out the letter. I tapped at the keys, watching a simple message appear on the crisp, white paper. When I was done, I carefully wrapped the ring inside of the folded paper and slid it inside the envelope. I typed the name and address on the envelope as well and sealed it with a red wax monogramed seal like the one's we'd seen when we were in Venice. I placed two stamps on the front and put it in the mailbox.

I'd promised not to deposit the ring in the Mississippi river; she knew i'd considered it even without me telling her and she'd asked me not to, asked me to hold on to it. Having been in her position before and having made a similar request, I did, for her. It's been a year though, since we separated, moved to different states and now that I'm packing to move again I didn't want to take it with me. I've lived with it after the divorce, kept it one of the clear zippered pockets of my suitcase for more than a handful of trips and almost gave it back to her when I saw her last in person, but things were going alright between us for a change and I hadn't wanted to ruin that moment.

I kept my word and didn't slip it into the murky Mississippi. Instead, I typed out an explanation as to why it was being returned and now it's on it's way.

I walked down Royal street today with ear buds in my ears, listening to Rufus Wainwright cover Hallelujah as the sun hit my face. I walked past the human statues, the street musicians and gutter punks as I peeked into galleries, antique stores and moved onward, feeling like I was saying goodbye already, even though I'll linger a little longer.

She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

I listened to the song and it made me miss think of someone that I knew I was going to miss and had already started to;even before I've left. I don't know which I was saying goodbye to; New Orleans or the person on my mind, but today felt like a goodbye.

Wanderlust

Spent a few days in Georgia with friends, dropping one of them off to hike the Appalachian Trail. He started at Amicalola Falls and will end it in Maine in about six months (if it all goes well and he's able to complete it).

The trip to Amicalola Falls, the nine hour ride there and back gave me plenty of time to think about things, including the fact that I'm due to move to California at the end of the month. I haven't even started packing yet, somehow knowing in the back of my mind that there would be a complication, and there was. The friend that was supposed to be my roommate has opted to stay where she is, because her current roommate can't find a place she can afford alone and we haven't been able to find a place that meets all of our needs. I found this out while in the middle of the woods, listening to a friend talk about the fact that for the next six months all that he had to do was wake up and walk.

There is a part of me that wants to seize this opportunity and call it a sign that I wasn't meant to move west, that I should go to Europe instead, like I've wanted to all along. The wanderlust in me feels that moment of disconnect and wants to use it as the chance to travel, the excuse for a moveable feast.

I sat last night at a bar in New Orleans, meeting up with friends after I'd dropped my bags at home and gone to get food. I sat next to Elly, who's supposed to ride with me west, talking wildly about how I'd rather be going to Amsterdam and she humored me, telling me she'd make that trip with me instead. For a moment I let myself believe that was what would happen and in that moment I was happy.

Venice is one of my favorite places in the world. Most of the time it feels like a sunday afternoon there.

When it rains

It's raining. I'd left the house to go to a doctors appointment and walked the six or seven blocks to the garage where my car is parked. I drove uptown to Richard's office on Napoleon avenue and was in and out in under fifteen minutes, which is so quickly that I didn't have to pay for parking because of the grace period. He gave me a clean bill of health aside from my sinus infection and for that he gave me a prescription for antibiotics.

I drove back to the garage and parked my car, opened my umbrella before exiting to walk to the pharmacy and it bent in the wind, ready to fall apart but it held together long enough for me to make it inside, where I was made to wait for the prescription to be filled. The man behind the counter told me they'd just called it in, but I knew he was making an excuse because they were on the phone with him when I left Richard's office. I waited patiently until the pharmacists assistant called my name, paid for all my things and left.

I walked home and it was raining even harder. My umbrella finally snapped when I tipped it to clear other umbrella's that were passing by. I could feel my shoes filling up with water, the dampness rising on my jeans to a point just below the knee. I waved to my neighbor with the hand that contained the broken pieces of my umbrella and he smiled, waved back.

When I got into the house I started removing layers. I left the umbrella by the door and as I moved up the stairs took my jacket off. When I got to the top, I removed my shoes and left footprints where my wet socks touched the wood floors (you could see the outlines of my toes because the wet fabric had clung to my feet). I removed my socks and jeans and put them directly in the washer before pulling my sweater over my head and hanging it on the hook that I'd taken my bathrobe from before slipping into it.

I walked into my bedroom, picked out dry jeans, a fresh shirt and warm socks all of which I slipped into while noting that my neighbor was looking up at my office window from his front porch.

À bientôt

I went to dinner the other night with a friend who's conversations are usually light and fun, but we started talking about relationships and our mutual difficulties that we'd had because of the work we do. It made me wish I was staying longer or I'd taken more time to try and get to know her better, sooner. I think we could have could have

I'd told her that I was moving when I visited her in the little french quarter shop she worked in. She was taken aback and honestly; i thought she might be. I'd mentioned before that I might be moving, but I'd never broken it to her that I would be for certain, because I was always afraid it would spoil the mood. I like to see her smile, after all. When I told her I was leaving, her smile dipped a little but it wasn't ever really gone. It was replaced with one that said "That's too bad" and it really was. It's too bad that we'd acted all along like we had time to see where things might go, because we didn't.

I've been sick the last few days, staying in to get over the cold/flu/monkey pox that I've been suffering from. I watch movies and order takeout, surf the web and get a little work done. I mustered what little energy I have to go out to eat with a friend this afternoon, because I don't want to spend my last month here in quarantine.

I'll miss New Orleans, but I'm leaving for the right reasons and I know it's time to go.

This is where I live, but not for much longer. I'll be moving west in about a month. I'm trying to think of it as being the right thing to do, but that doesn't mean that it's what I really want. What I want is to stop the clocks and just lay here for a while.

L'aventure commence

"Would you ever want it to work out? Would you give it another shot and try again if she ever wanted to?", she asked me. She was sitting on my left side, facing me and I was staring straight ahead. Her knees were just barely touching the side of my leg. I know that my moving west immediately made some people think it was to be closer to my ex wife, so her questions aren't unexpected, her concerns valid enough that they should be laid to rest gently.

"No", I said, after considering it for a moment.

"No? How can you be so sure? Maybe if you saw each other it would be different?".

"I know because she's happy with who she is now. I'm happy for her, that she's happy, but neither of us wants what the other wants. If I met her today, if I came across her at work or even just out someplace and got to know her, I don't think I'd fall in love with her now, with the person she's happy being now. It worked out the way that it was always going to work out. We met at probably the only moment in each others lives when we would have given each other a chance, but it didn't work out and this is where we are now. "

"Do you think she wants it to work out?", she asked me.

"No. I think she wants to know that I'd try, but I really don't think she wants it to actually work out, unless working it out means that I fold everything I want up, pack it away and go live her life with her, instead of mine. That's not ever going to happen though, because I don't want her life any more than she would want mine."

"Maybe later in life, things will be different.".

"My life is now. By the time I reach 'later', it'll either be alone or with someone that I've met along the way, not someone that went off and lived their life and then wants me back after they've had their adventure. The adventure is the good part; if I'm going to have anyone in my life I want it to be someone that wants to share that with me.".

The waitress brought the check and I paid. We changed the subject to lighter things, distracted ourselves with little pieces of portable technology and tried to let the heaviness of the moment go before we slipped outside into the clear, crisp afternoon.

Mardi Gras day

It's been the Mardi Gras season here in New Orleans, which means a lot of different things. It means parades and costumes, the parody of current trends and observance of historic traditions. It means drinking and noise, it means excess that would seem shocking and all of it leads up to the Ash Wednesday, which is the first day of Lent. It's the feast before the famine and people revel as though it may very well be their last chance to do so. They make promises the week before about what they'll give up on Ash Wednesday and then pursue those things until it comes, with a ravenous hunger. "I swear I'm giving up drinking right after Mardi Gras..."



I've had a friend who leaves in what becomes an unreachable neighborhood (hi crime and too far/dangerous to walk from, no available cabs during Mardi Gras), so I offered to let her stay with me until Carnival was over. She works on Bourbon street, so she'd been meeting me in the quarter and then I'd walk her to work, but sometimes the cab situation would mean it would take hours for her to get here (with me waiting to go with her to eat or have a drink), so we just agreed she'd stay with me instead. After the first night I gave her a key, because she'd often not come home until nine in the morning and it was easier just to have her let herself in. She worked every day until Lundi Gras and then stayed with me so she could enjoy Mardi Gras without fighting to get back and forth. It was an fast friendship that we shared, she and I, despite how unlikely it might have seemed that we would. We went to the parades together, she came with me on a Noisician Coalition march and we stayed out late, drank, ate gluttonously and had fun together.



Mardi Gras day we stood on Canal street and I did something I haven't done in well over five years and probably closer to ten: I ate a Lucky Dog. I'm normally opposed to the very idea of them, but there was something about seeing a parade early in the afternoon, putting together costumes, having drinks, chasing down doubloons from Rex that made the indulgence of a Lucky Dog seem not only acceptable, but almost necessary to really have had the full experience. Oh, and we touched the Saints superbowl trophy and hi fived Sean Payton

We stood against the metal barricades, waiting for the floats to pass and I smiled, my belly full of gluttony, that I was back in New Orleans, that this time I was experiencing Mardi Gras as a reveler and not just as a bar owner waiting for it to pass. I looked down and saw a little girl with the most piercingly blue eyes that I'd ever seen, smiling at the beads she'd just caught and it gave my smile further reason. The sun was in my eyes, but I didn't mind. The crowds were thick, but that was ok too.



I looked up and saw a float passing, one with a Venetian Carnivale theme. I thought of people in Venice, sharing that day with us on the other side of the world and it made me feel connected to them because of all the places in between that don't celebrate the way that they do, the way that we do. It made me sad for a moment, to think that I'd planned on living in Europe this year, celebrating in Venice on this day, but it passed because i was in New Orleans celebrating it and really, that's pretty wonderful.




The end of The night brought another tradition; the clearing of the streets by police when Mardi Gras Gives way to Ash Wednesday and Lent begins. The come through on horseback, clearing Bourbon street. It's the only day, the only time people are told to leave and they do so in typical New Orleans an impressive cavalcade of mounted police.

Parades

This photo was taken at the Saints victory parade with no flash. It is, of course, completely impossible to get a still photograph with all the commotion, the surging of the crowd, constant movement, but that’s sort of what I like: all the motion.



Elly, petting the horses of New Orleans mounted police on Bourbon Street near Iberville after we'd managed to get through the crushing crowd and back to relatively safe distance from the people that had come by the thousands to see the parade. She's wearing her grandfathers WWII army coat to keep warm and she swims inside of it, it hanging loosely on her lithe frame.

Carnival

One of the biggest differences I've noticed about this city since I've returned post-Katrina is that people are more apt to celebrate rather than feel they are above it. I recall distinctly the moaning and groaning of a lot of locals who didn't seem the slightest bit interested in Mardi Gras celebrations, but now; it's a different story. People plot their costumes in advance, chart their hours to make it to their favorite events and put forth an almost Herculean effort to make sure that they are a part of it. It's one of the better changes I've seen, this coming together.

spring is coming, I can smell it

What passes for winter is slowly letting go of New Orleans and spring is coming earlier here than it does in the northern state that I grew up in. It's warm today, so I went for a walk in short sleeves and still managed to work a bead of sweat on by brow. I walk fast, wearing headphones, listening to music (lately I've been stuck on Saltillo, particularly A hair on the head of John the Baptist ) looking around at the world without lingering on the faces in it. Sometimes people will tell me after the fact that they've seen me blur past them, unable to get my attention while I've been on these afternoon walks and in my excitement for this fair weather I'm sure that I'll give good cause for these comments today.

I can smell the spring in the air. I can smell the difference in the scent of the rain, smell the old wood swelling in my old apartment, smell the earth renewing it's offerings of annuals & perennials. I can smell the plaster and paint relax after the brief period of cold.

I opened the floor to ceiling windows in my office and saw a tiny green lizard wander inside a few steps before retreating. He took a fly that hadn't fared the winter so well on his way back into the sun and soaked up the last few remaining rays before it started raining.

Today I'm that little green lizard, taking the spring before it's time, soaking up the warmth and the sun, because that's what we are meant to do after the winter passes.