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.