I promised you all the wonderful costume creation updates, but it didn't happen. For one thing, as usual, I waited until the eleventh hour to make the darned thing (really the 11:30th hour, if the truth be told) and, as usual, I had a difficult-to-resolve issue with my computer that made it impossible to blog for a couple of weeks. So here I am back again, many many hours after my last post, and Halloween has come and gone without a peep from me on the making of the White Rabbit. It was successful, that much I know, because I got an extra Bingo! card because of it.
Bingo!? you ask? Yes, the New Orleans Bingo! Show, witnessed in full glory on Halloween itself in the city which is perhaps the love of my life. The whole reason I had to have a lightweight packable costume was so it would fit in my suitcase and be comfortable to wear for twelve hours outdoors in the company of 20,000 of my friends at Voodoo Experience. It was brilliant and beautiful and I don't regret for a moment that I forwent the dubious pleasures of the Gourds in order to watch Perry Farrell declare, "Tonight I am a superhero!" Also, I saw Gogol Bordello and the Black Keys and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, who are as famous to me as Jane's Addiction, and a whole host of others. And I got to spend my favorite holiday in the company of two people that I couldn't love more if they were related to me by blood. I was deliriously happy that we were all together.
she was so happy to see those gypsy punks!
New Orleans is not a town for everyone. It is brimming with ghosts and legends and glitter and dirt. It is urgent and spooky and difficult like a lover. It is not full of convenience and quirk. It takes a certain darkness of spirit to adore it, and that is trait that my companions and I revel in sharing.
this was hardly even a costume
It was harder to bid the city adieu this time. Each time I visit a new place, I find myself wondering if I could slot myself into the life that is there, if I could make a place for myself in that world. Would this be my grocery store? Would I wash my clothes here? Would I fall in with these marvelous people, become their friend, have dinner parties at their houses? There is never the questioning when I am in New Orleans. I think to myself: this would be the place I would buy milk. This would be the cafe where I ate Sunday morning brunch. My children would go to this school, they would wear these uniforms gladly. These would be my people, my friends, my tribe. And I wait anxiously until the time comes to return.
I don't know that you will read this; you have done a very thorough job excising me from your life, and I can't imagine that you would go subjecting yourself to a big ol' dose of my own self-aware self-promotion. On the other hand, we got pretty close, didn't we? and there was a lot of stuff I wrote on here that was more or less intended expressly for you. You always knew that. You are a smart man; I know you sussed out what was yours and yours alone. Which is why I can see that the last thing I posted could have felt like a kick in the gut.
I didn't intend for it to. I didn't intend anything by it, really, except blowing off steam the way I am most familiar with - by letting other, more talented artists (well, with the exception of the Sex Pistols, but in my defense, that's an Iggy Pop song) do my talking for me. I was so ANGRY - not at you, at myself, at my own emotions - and I was so tired of nurturing this thing, this pygmy mouse lemur, this incredibly vulnerable porcelain shell of love. I wanted nothing more than to grind the damn thing under my heel, to snap its spine and leave its bloodied carcass for the vultures, and go on being the cynical, jaded, lemur-murdering bitch I apparently long to be. I was exhausting myself waiting for someone to take it from me, and I was ready to take matters into my own hands, perhaps to drive my destiny myself for a little while.
You misconstrued my meaning, and maybe the time was ripe for that to happen - you certainly didn't flush the last seven months down the toilet over how a blog post got tagged - you ended up tagged as stupid boys more than once, remember? But I do feel bad knowing that it was the straw that brought the damned camel to its knees.
For what it's worth, the playlist from last Friday contains songs I hardly ever listen to. I have played it through, in its entirety as it exists on this blog, only twice now. I am putting up another little list for you to listen to, and I will tell you this: these are the songs I have been listening to over and over again since last fall. They are a much bigger part of the story of you and me.
Finally, I am just telling everyone (you know you are not the only one reading this) that primates are remarkably fucking resilient creatures, and they do not take kindly to mistreatment. Stupid zombie lemurs.
I just wrote half a novel trying to describe a perfectly indescribable experience. I waxed on and on about the meticulae of it; I hadn't even finished describing the first day I was in town. I figure it's a lot like telling someone a dream you had: they can't ever see what you saw, and they don't understand the glorious hyper-reality of it all, because it's not their dream. It's your more-brilliant-than-crayons colors, your angel-voice songs, your bacchanalian indulgences. Bear with me. The shimmering memories are like fireflies - they stop glowing when you hold them in your hand. I'd rather show you a fragment of a wing preserved in amber than a lifeless body crushed by enthusiasm.
Things I hated before I got there: -the 45 mph headwind we took off into, shaking the plane on the runway -the guy on the 194 who invited me to sit next to him -the expensive glass of box wine I bought to pass time in the airport -American Airlines
Things I ate while I was there: -Bananas Foster french toast -quiche with sausage and portabello mushrooms -chicken smothered in cheese -violet candies -whole roasted cloves of garlic in a sandwich -beignets and more beignets and not enough perfect cafe au lait -blackened redfish and bacon dressed greenbeans -etoufee with shrimp and crawfish -an almond croissant and the first ripe strawberry I'd eaten in months -a giant ice cream cone covered in rainbow sprinkles (or shots or jimmies. pick your favorite term)
Things I heard while I was there: -Jimbo Wallace slapping his bass with one finger -five of the oldest men on earth singing gospel songs -Django-style hot gypsy jazz -an unholy and compelling fusion of ska and death metal -a few minutes of Scott Weiland sounding dee-runk -a hip-hop artist asking an audience to "Please... put your fist in the air!" -a siren, trashcan lids, a megaphone, and a theremin -NOT Nine Inch Nails, REM, or the Horrorpops (I didn't know they were playing)
Things I saw that were animals: -two turtles sunning themselves on the detritus on the canal near the city park where Voodoo was held -a tiny lizard on a wall, pointed out by my companion -an abandoned plate of unidentified something that wriggled when I walked past (I'm pretty sure this was animalian in nature) -two awesome dogs in an Irish bar
Things I drank while I was there: -two awful espresso drinks, the first a push button affair that tasted like plastic and the second pulled on a lovely brass machine: this tasted of disaffected hipster -an $8 shot of Jameson's poured by a friendly bartender in a Quarter bar -a $4.25 tumbler FULL of Jameson's poured by a friendly bartender in a not-quite-the-Quarter-anymore bar. He told us where to go to buy cheap bottles of PBR. -bottled water -not enough perfect cafe au lait -a lovely cafe viennois with sweetened whipped cream
Things I hated while I was there: - hand grenades in not-yard souvenir cups with stupid straws -most of Bourbon Street -the giddy tourists who don't know King Oliver from a hole in the ground crowding into Preservation Hall and gawking at these amazingly talented musicians like they're in Frontierland -the empty houses and empty streets and broken cobbles -not remembering how to get from place to place; the map in my memory would not superimpose itself over the streets I was standing on
Things I fell in love with a little bit or a lot or all over again while I was there: -the thin pulse of a hand-muted trumpet -the balconies festooned with boxes of flowers and flags, and in some cases mannequins -the years you can feel through the soles of your feet when you walk the cobbles and bricks -that statue of the lovers reclining in the back patio of Lafitte's -the hole in the wall Cajun place with the surly staff and homemade tasso ham in their jambalaya -jazz tuba -sitting on a bench in Jackson Square close enough to share the liner notes on my new CDs -burlesque dancers -cafe au lait -holding hands
Things I hated on my way back: -not buying the shiny pink parasol the second I saw it -American Airlines charging me for checking my bag -buying a back copy of Rolling Stone before realizing it was three weeks old -the coffee I overpaid for in the Dallas Fort Worth airport -the Dallas Fort Worth airport -holding my tongue and holding my breath and not saying all the things I meant to say or wanted to say, like: please. and: thank you. and: you are on that list, the one before this one. and: goodbye. I always forget to say goodbye. -crying from holding it all -getting a cold from the stupid airplane
Random marvelosity that is my new obsession:
During one of their shows that I saw, they showed a little video of New Orleans being joyfully inhabited by the sort of misfits and angels that I want to make friends with, while Clint (the lead singer) crooned I Can't Give You Anything But Love.
Not a single picture exists of me in New Orleans this time. It's like I was never there at all. If it weren't for the bag full of clothes smeared with powdered sugar from the piles of beignets, I might begin to doubt it myself.
Well, I was invited, of course! Specifically , I was invited to this to watch the following:
How the hell is he getting that much sound out of that Shure 55? I think it must be gutted and replaced with better components. And I thought Jimbo Wallace, the bass player, was running guts, but those sound steely to me... Sorry. Dorked out for a second.
I will also get to see these guys:
And also:
Oh, yeah, and I might see Nine Inch Nails and REM and Stone Temple Pilots. And the Buzzcocks. If I really wanted to, I could watch Panic at the Disco and some other big name acts. But I am most excited about the traditional jazz, a la Preservation Hall. Well, and some crawfish etouffee. And a dose of sunshine. And maybe a glass of whiskey or two. And some handholding.
I was going to make this a post about how I bagged on dressing like a pirate today, and caught some flak for it. It was going to be amusing and light-hearted; I was going to make fun of my geekish tendencies again. But when it came down to it, the real reason I didn't dress up today is because I don't have anyone around to appreciate my efforts. The two people who I would put on a corset especially for are all the way across the country. They might as well be across the planet today. Once upon a time, the three of us traveled to a magical city together, and we had some times.
This is Lafitte's. He was a pirate who retired as a blacksmith. This building is hundreds of years old, and feels it. We drank whiskey at noon here, while the heat of the day built around us. Every window and door was wide open; gleaming carriages guided by top-hatted drivers kept gliding past, the horses' tack gently jingling. The first day we went - the first day we werein town - we managed to all dress in shades of purple. This was unintentional. None of us changed, though.
Lafitte's from the inside. When I think of New Orleans, this is what I see in my head. You could feel the history when you touched these bricks; they felt alive.
This is La Fabulous trying to make a Frida Kahlo face. She made this face a lot; when we were reading ghost stories that scared her, when the primates seemed too human, when there were only hours left for all of us to be together. You can see she is wearing the saints in this picture. On our way back to Sitka, we thought she had lost them in the airport. Luckily they had only slipped down into her bag. They never leave her for long.
This is Lady L. internalizing the whole experience. She is doing that by eating pralines in the grass of Jackson Square. There was jazz playing. You can almost hear it. That might well be why she is smiling.
We look astonished because that is a mama elephant. She is pregnant, and we got to feel the baby moving. It's happening in this picture. Lady L. got to touch her, too, but I don't have that picture.
Sunburned, hungover, exhausted, and exhilarated. I don't recall buying anything at the French Market, but here is the proof we were there. Here is the proof that once, we were as inseparable as the Three Musketeers, if that cliche doesn't make you roll your eyes. Here is the proof that two of the best women in the world are my friends.
Dear Ell and Vee, Happy birthdays, my darlings. I miss you both so much. Thank you, again and again and once again, for all that you are. No matter what, this city is ours.
Love, Ess
P.S. - I don't know which of us is which of the musketeers, except La Fab is Porthos. Obviously.
New Orleans was a refuge from desperation the first time I went.
Winters in Alaska are long and dark. This time of year, right before the fall equinox, we lose about five minutes of daylight every single day. That doesn't sound like much; it shouldn't even really be noticeable. Well, except that it's better than half an hour of light lost every week. Labor Day weekend, you're happily throwing brats on the grill at 7:30 knowing they'll be done before twilight; by the first week of October, you're putting on your pajamas during the evening news. It's not as severe here in Southeast as it is further north, but it's still enough to make a sensitive lady feel as though she's losing her mind. One begins to use sonnets and Leonard Cohen as crutches to make it through the shrinking days and the lengthening nights; sometimes these are supplemented with lashings of blackberry brandy in tea and far too many meals based around dairy products. The second winter that La Fab was here in Alaska, we figured out that she would leave but FAST if we didn't take steps to ensure her survival. We planned a trip to a place that was warm and far away. We planned a trip to Maui.
Well, we started to anyway. Until we realized that we couldn't afford to go to Hawaii. Undaunted, and well-motivated, we watched the travel section of the Anchorage newspaper, hoping we could score a deal with a cut-rate travel agent, but to no avail. Finally, one January weekend, as the slush was coming down in buckets, there was a tiny, almost insignificant ad: roundtrip, Seattle to New Orleans, for $199. We lunged. We made reservations to leave on Easter evening. It was the first time I had a vacation without my (then) husband since we had started dating. That in itself caused a few rows; I put my foot down.
It was... liberating. I supposed a good deal of the affection I feel for the city is due to that very fact; I associate the time I spend there with a certain sense of emancipation. With self-determination. With freedom. I love the city all the more for it being mine alone, without compromise. I can't speak for La Fab, or for L., but it looms larger in my memory than a weekend getaway ought.
she was so happy to see those gypsy punks!
this was hardly even a costume
this was hardly even a costume
a certain darkness of spirit, indeed
