New Orleans reminds you that it's important to slow down and absorb life, rather than let it run through you, or over you, however you want to look at it. The colors, sights and sounds belong in our skin, seeping through our pores and filling our veins with inspiration. No one can create without looking outside of one's self. This must be why this city is saturated with so much pulsing creativity, there's an ingrained understand that we are a part of this hungry place, in the dirtiest, visceral, vivid way possible. It inseminates us with ideas and guttural vibrations.
As I was rushing down St. Claude on my bicycle, I heard the train howl in the distance. In order to get into the lower 9th ward, one must cross the traintracks, the physical and symbolic gateway into a post apocalyptic zone. Boarded up, dilapidated homes slump in dismay, in loneliness, in abandonment, with prison tatts and battle scars that remind us of the day hell escaped from the gulf. Shops push poison, people push poison, people carry their poison behind them, shoulders heavy and sore. My new friend told me that this is a city full of ghosts, both living and dead. As the dead weave in and out of the rickety rafters, the living weave in an out of the cracks of life. The vacant stares, the hollow hearts, we all have the potential to become broken, to become the creaking branches hovering over rotten rooftops.
However, I refuse to believe anyone here went down without a fight. I have never seen a more tenacious people. Roots somehow manage to cling to slippery swamp here, and the winds that once blew all the trees away are pulling them back. The dead can't even bring themselves to move on.
I rapidly approached the tracks as the train came into view. It trudged along under the cotton candy clouds, amplifying the brilliance of the earth and sky with its mundane, flat cars. Toxic waste and explosive fuel sloshed inside giant vessels rumbling under rusty wheels. It creaks and trudges slower than my stride. I could beat it to its destination with a leisurely stroll. It was hard to understand how such an industrial eyesore could fill me with such intoxication. I was hypnotized by the rhythm of the wheels and the whistle sexed my ear drums. There was no way I could be angry. I would be 45 minutes late because of this, but it's a moment in time. What right does my schedule, my clock, have to rob me of the bridge sprawling across the expanse? or the gnarled branches wafting with the breath of the freight train? These are the tiny moments that never leave us. These are the reasons the dead never leave.
After 20 minutes, I decide to sit on the median shoulder with an older man. The line of cars has grown about 5 blocks, and everyone is just waiting, accepting their fate, taking it for what it's worth: a moment in time. The man's eyes carried about 65 years of sorrow, and about a thousand years of joy. He couldn't have been more joyful that I decided to sit next to him. I asked him where he's from and he said the lower 9th. I asked him if he was there during Katrina and he said yes, and so was his Mama . She was also there for Betsy. He had to carry her away from her house kicking and screaming during Katrina, she didn't want to leave. She was hollering "I made it through Betsy, I can make it through this!! Leave me here!!!"
"But Mama, you can't swim!"
Many people weren't as lucky as Mama. They didn't have a son to carry them away.
Can you imagine swimming out of your home as you watch it submerge under apocalyptic flood waters? Sinking beneath waves 30 feet above your driveway? This is beyond my realm of understanding.
The man told me God blessed this city with my presence. He thanked me for my good work.
As the train ultimately passed, I biked at half speed towards the industrial canal, and hoped the bridge would be up. I wanted to watch a ship go by. I wanted more whistles, more steel, more patience, more fissures in time's hands.
The bridge was down, but rose on my way home. Each way in and out of the lower 9th, I was reminded to slow down and look around. When waiting doesn't feel like waiting anymore, you know you're on to something.
<3
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Cross that bridge
In my quest to become a true New Orlean, I have been spending copious amounts of time on my porch. I fix myself some coffee, or some eggs, or what have you, and bask in the sun next to my camelia plant. I usually wear Brandon's brown hat tilted forward to shield the sun, sip my coffee, and attempt to slow my head down. My camelia plant is actually my new favorite thing to hang out with. She is quiet, beautiful, fragrant company. Being alone is easier when you have a camelia plant.
After my date with my porch and camelia plant, I jumped on my bike to go to the Lower Ninth Ward Village, a non profit community center for youth. For those of you who might not know, the lower 9th ward is one of the most economically depressed communities of New Orleans, and was one of the the neighborhood hit the hardest by Katrina. Before Katrina, the lower
9th had 7 schools, it now has 1 charter school. Most of the students at this charter school are not even residents of the lower 9th, and most lower 9th children have to spend 2 to 3 hours on a bus to get to school. As you can imagine, the drop out rate for lower 9th children is through the roof, almost 65% I believe. The Lower 9th Ward Village seeks to help these children and build community through educational and recreational programs. Mack,the executive director, says that if I really want to make a difference with my teaching, if I want to challenge myself and serve the community that really needs my level of commitment and compassion, I need to be a part of this project.
Duh.
My idea is to have the NOLA free school collaborate with the village and have classes in their awesome facility when they finally open. I want the program to be somewhat of a mentorship, where older students who are struggling in their classes can gain extra credit by coming to my program and helping little kids. They will improve their reading and writing skill while helping others, and I would like them to make books that they can take home. It's going to take a considerable amount of networking and research, but it is so worth it. Even if it isn't as awesome as I envision it, something that even comes close will be beneficial. That's for damn sure.
After my date with my porch and camelia plant, I jumped on my bike to go to the Lower Ninth Ward Village, a non profit community center for youth. For those of you who might not know, the lower 9th ward is one of the most economically depressed communities of New Orleans, and was one of the the neighborhood hit the hardest by Katrina. Before Katrina, the lower
9th had 7 schools, it now has 1 charter school. Most of the students at this charter school are not even residents of the lower 9th, and most lower 9th children have to spend 2 to 3 hours on a bus to get to school. As you can imagine, the drop out rate for lower 9th children is through the roof, almost 65% I believe. The Lower 9th Ward Village seeks to help these children and build community through educational and recreational programs. Mack,the executive director, says that if I really want to make a difference with my teaching, if I want to challenge myself and serve the community that really needs my level of commitment and compassion, I need to be a part of this project.
Duh.
My idea is to have the NOLA free school collaborate with the village and have classes in their awesome facility when they finally open. I want the program to be somewhat of a mentorship, where older students who are struggling in their classes can gain extra credit by coming to my program and helping little kids. They will improve their reading and writing skill while helping others, and I would like them to make books that they can take home. It's going to take a considerable amount of networking and research, but it is so worth it. Even if it isn't as awesome as I envision it, something that even comes close will be beneficial. That's for damn sure.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A rock and hard place
How has it bee 10 days since I've written in this? Shame on me.
In truth, it feels like 10 years. There is something about this place that packs 3 weeks worth of time into each hour, and somehow I feel like I've spent my entire life here. For a town that has a reputation for taking it slow and easy, I sure feel like things are moving a mile a minute, or perhaps that's just how I operate. Working in an inner city New Orleans school has really sped up the time as well. I feel like I'm learning a thousand things every day I'm with these kids. It makes my brain buzz to think about my position with these kids, both socially and personally, and how I need to connect my ideals and politics with my pedagogy. I find it entirely problematic that I, the only white person in the room, stand above these black children asserting power and control. Everyone told me to be a hardass with them at first. It seemed like that would be the only way to handle these raucous 6 year olds, because they just would not respect me. Their regular teacher had to come in and lay the smack down on them. She found out two of my students were crawling on the floor so she made them crawl on the floor for 15 minutes in from of everyone. I found this to be cruel and slightly crazy, but couldnt really do a damn thing about it. So, for myself, instead of implementing corporal punishment, I decided to make a fun discipline chart with red, yellow and green cards with faces next to their names. I implemented reward as well as punishment, and decided to be a hardass about my consistency and expectations. I had one girl throw herself on the floor and throw a tantrum because I gave her a red card. I had to remove her from my class because we couldn't get a damn thing done with her carrying on. However, most of the time now I can get the kids to behave with a calm, friendly, loving attitude. Today I told them how amazing they are and asked them to make Valentines for themselves. They know how much I like them, so they want to behave and impress me. It is mutual respect. Duh, Ms. Thompson.
Yet, one of my students tore up the Valentine she made for me because I gave her a red card. Sorry Ebony, making me a Valentine isn't going to make it ok for you to hit kids.
For the first time, I am feeling like a real adult. I have a 'real' job, I live alone, and have become a bit more of a homebody. Tonight my best friend needed my support and I felt in a position to not only listen and support, but to give sound, wise advice. I have to appreciate that all the crazy shit I've been through has give me an arsenal of knowledge that I can't discount . I hugged her and started crying because I could feel how much hurt she felt. I wish everyone could feel emotions through skin. It really makes it easier to feel close to people.
In truth, it feels like 10 years. There is something about this place that packs 3 weeks worth of time into each hour, and somehow I feel like I've spent my entire life here. For a town that has a reputation for taking it slow and easy, I sure feel like things are moving a mile a minute, or perhaps that's just how I operate. Working in an inner city New Orleans school has really sped up the time as well. I feel like I'm learning a thousand things every day I'm with these kids. It makes my brain buzz to think about my position with these kids, both socially and personally, and how I need to connect my ideals and politics with my pedagogy. I find it entirely problematic that I, the only white person in the room, stand above these black children asserting power and control. Everyone told me to be a hardass with them at first. It seemed like that would be the only way to handle these raucous 6 year olds, because they just would not respect me. Their regular teacher had to come in and lay the smack down on them. She found out two of my students were crawling on the floor so she made them crawl on the floor for 15 minutes in from of everyone. I found this to be cruel and slightly crazy, but couldnt really do a damn thing about it. So, for myself, instead of implementing corporal punishment, I decided to make a fun discipline chart with red, yellow and green cards with faces next to their names. I implemented reward as well as punishment, and decided to be a hardass about my consistency and expectations. I had one girl throw herself on the floor and throw a tantrum because I gave her a red card. I had to remove her from my class because we couldn't get a damn thing done with her carrying on. However, most of the time now I can get the kids to behave with a calm, friendly, loving attitude. Today I told them how amazing they are and asked them to make Valentines for themselves. They know how much I like them, so they want to behave and impress me. It is mutual respect. Duh, Ms. Thompson.
Yet, one of my students tore up the Valentine she made for me because I gave her a red card. Sorry Ebony, making me a Valentine isn't going to make it ok for you to hit kids.
For the first time, I am feeling like a real adult. I have a 'real' job, I live alone, and have become a bit more of a homebody. Tonight my best friend needed my support and I felt in a position to not only listen and support, but to give sound, wise advice. I have to appreciate that all the crazy shit I've been through has give me an arsenal of knowledge that I can't discount . I hugged her and started crying because I could feel how much hurt she felt. I wish everyone could feel emotions through skin. It really makes it easier to feel close to people.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Brick walls and Bumps in the night
Last night almost pulled me into the throws of madness. I couldn't feel my toes and I could see my breath as I huddled under my mountain of blankets. People say it never gets this cold here. After hanging up the phone with my dear friend, my heart froze over and I felt the ghost's presence like never before. The heater was, again, projecting dancing shadows on the wall and I heard soft breathing sounds, like gentle snores. Despite my best efforts, I let fear envelop me, and I called him back. He, of course, doesn't believe in ghosts and told me to calm myself. I told him I was afraid I was losing my mind. He said he wasn't going to go there, but now that I mention it, perhaps I was right. He was busy and I felt bad for disturbing him so I let him go about his business, and again, I was alone with the feeling. I began to calm myself and almost drifted to sleep when I felt the couch shake beneath me as if struck by a small earthquake.
There are no earthquakes in New Orleans.
I spun into hysterics and called Marika who consoled me the best she could, but I was inconsolable. I ended up falling asleep from exhaustion because my tears were so violent. I woke up puffy eyed and groggy, knowing that I had to do something about this, because I have more important things to worry about, more hearts to care for, more minds to nourish, to be so afraid.
I am brave as fuck. Anyone who knows me knows this. And being brave means doing things even when you are afraid, and further, conquering that fear with a vengeance.
I went out, rocked my job interview and landed a job that makes me bubble over with excitement. I will be working for an organization called "Young Audiences", a non profit organization that does arts education for children. I will be working in the after school program and I get to create my own curriculum, which is absolutely my wet dream! The supervisor liked me so much that she wants to start me right away with kindergarten kids. I proposed a sample lesson to her, where I will incorporate movement and theatre by showing the kids how to use their bodies and voices to become animals from all over the world. It is required to have a performance at the end of the lesson series, so I proposed to have a small play where the children pretend to be different animals and they can help me create the plot and such. It will be especially positive for aggressive children, who can exercise their aggression in a healthy, artistic way by pretending to be a lion or a bear (hopefully they don't maul the children who pretend to be bunnies....)
Anyway, when I came home from my triumphant interview, I lit my sage stick and walked around the entire apartment proclaiming respectfully, yet assertively, "You will not scare me, I will feel safe here, I want to live here in peace with you, but I will not allow you to scare me". I used sage before, and ASKED her not to scare me, but that obviously wasn't enough. Now, though I am feeling a bit of anxiety, I do not feel fear. I think I am mostly just processing everything that is happening. It's only been 2 weeks and I have already moved into my own apartment, landed a brilliant job, wrangled with a spirit, gotten involved with community projects, and countless other things. I suppose this is what it means to run.
There are no earthquakes in New Orleans.
I spun into hysterics and called Marika who consoled me the best she could, but I was inconsolable. I ended up falling asleep from exhaustion because my tears were so violent. I woke up puffy eyed and groggy, knowing that I had to do something about this, because I have more important things to worry about, more hearts to care for, more minds to nourish, to be so afraid.
I am brave as fuck. Anyone who knows me knows this. And being brave means doing things even when you are afraid, and further, conquering that fear with a vengeance.
I went out, rocked my job interview and landed a job that makes me bubble over with excitement. I will be working for an organization called "Young Audiences", a non profit organization that does arts education for children. I will be working in the after school program and I get to create my own curriculum, which is absolutely my wet dream! The supervisor liked me so much that she wants to start me right away with kindergarten kids. I proposed a sample lesson to her, where I will incorporate movement and theatre by showing the kids how to use their bodies and voices to become animals from all over the world. It is required to have a performance at the end of the lesson series, so I proposed to have a small play where the children pretend to be different animals and they can help me create the plot and such. It will be especially positive for aggressive children, who can exercise their aggression in a healthy, artistic way by pretending to be a lion or a bear (hopefully they don't maul the children who pretend to be bunnies....)
Anyway, when I came home from my triumphant interview, I lit my sage stick and walked around the entire apartment proclaiming respectfully, yet assertively, "You will not scare me, I will feel safe here, I want to live here in peace with you, but I will not allow you to scare me". I used sage before, and ASKED her not to scare me, but that obviously wasn't enough. Now, though I am feeling a bit of anxiety, I do not feel fear. I think I am mostly just processing everything that is happening. It's only been 2 weeks and I have already moved into my own apartment, landed a brilliant job, wrangled with a spirit, gotten involved with community projects, and countless other things. I suppose this is what it means to run.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Playing chicken with the waves
Despite my best efforts to embrace her, the spiritual presence in my apartment chills me. I am trying to understand whether it is the countless episodes of 'Are you Afraid of the Dark?' I watched as a child, or if there is something really going on here. Perhaps it is my crazy imagination, and I am manifesting these feelings, but I don't think so. I feel a clenching in my chest, like something is about to happen at any moment. At times, I don't feel her at all, but at night she is pulsing through this place. It's not that Im afraid she is going to hurt me, but being someone with a heightened sense of empathy, I feel that I am taking on some of her heaviness. I don't think spirits linger unless they are too heavy to fly away. What is keeping her here?
I am repeatedly playing youtube clips of my best friend's poetry to bring me peace. His voice is like having a hand to hold. His words are a warm blanket. How fortunate I am to know I'll never be alone.
I am repeatedly playing youtube clips of my best friend's poetry to bring me peace. His voice is like having a hand to hold. His words are a warm blanket. How fortunate I am to know I'll never be alone.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
You've been climbing up hill for 12 years, now you have to learn how to walk down...
Rob Breszny, an astrologer I enjoy, advised me that instead of flying, to learn what running feels like. Running is only sustainable at a steady pace, and I have been in full flying sprint. I always thought my tits were too big for running, but Im learning that I can always equip myself with an excellent sports bra. I have the ability to do that, it's not very hard. It just feels hard.
Whatever, life theories aside, I live in a beautiful apartment in the French quarter. It has high ceilings and is wall to wall brick. Theres a loft big enough to stand in and a gorgeous kitchen with...a fucking dish washer. I haven't had a dishwasher in 7 years! The courtyard is beautiful and the neighbors are hilarious and delightful. I really hope I can swing this. I get such good energy in this place and when I walk in, got a surge of confidence and started chanting " I can make this work! I can do this!"
I think much of the good energy is coming from the ghost who lives here with me. I can tell she's a she, and I can feel her so very strongly. When I walked into the house, I said "Hello, I'm Kate and I'm going to live with you". That is when the surge of optimism came. I lit sage and asked for protection, for myself, this house, Marika, and for her as well. I told her I wanted to know her story and live in peace with her. I can hear her upstairs and it brings me chills. I told her that I am a bit afraid, that I wanted her to feel free to assert her presence, but it's new to me and brings me some anxiety. I've never lived with anyone who's not of this world before. I asked her to please take it easy on me. Don't make things fly around yet, ya know?
I am beginning to think that I am in a novel, and someone is reading about me, shaking their head and whispering:
"damn"
Whatever, life theories aside, I live in a beautiful apartment in the French quarter. It has high ceilings and is wall to wall brick. Theres a loft big enough to stand in and a gorgeous kitchen with...a fucking dish washer. I haven't had a dishwasher in 7 years! The courtyard is beautiful and the neighbors are hilarious and delightful. I really hope I can swing this. I get such good energy in this place and when I walk in, got a surge of confidence and started chanting " I can make this work! I can do this!"
I think much of the good energy is coming from the ghost who lives here with me. I can tell she's a she, and I can feel her so very strongly. When I walked into the house, I said "Hello, I'm Kate and I'm going to live with you". That is when the surge of optimism came. I lit sage and asked for protection, for myself, this house, Marika, and for her as well. I told her I wanted to know her story and live in peace with her. I can hear her upstairs and it brings me chills. I told her that I am a bit afraid, that I wanted her to feel free to assert her presence, but it's new to me and brings me some anxiety. I've never lived with anyone who's not of this world before. I asked her to please take it easy on me. Don't make things fly around yet, ya know?
I am beginning to think that I am in a novel, and someone is reading about me, shaking their head and whispering:
"damn"
looks like a nice day for a tornado!
How do you recognize a rational fear? And when is that fear colored and warped by past wounds and patterns? When do we read the signs? and when do we recognize that those signs are simply the shadowy outlines of our insecurities? When do we do the safe thing and when do we do the thing that puts fire in our bones?
My brain feels like this ominous southern storm cloud outside the cafe window, shifting and expanding in ways that don't even make sense. I have written and theorized a lot about my obsession with clouds, and the more I think about it, the more it clicks. The storm cloud is pulled by wind, airy and flowing yet heavy, oh so heavy, with what it has absorbed. My mind soaks up the water and dirt and poison from this earth and is pulled like taffy by the winds of this existence. Any illusion my naive, crazy ass mind has about understanding the mechanics of this taffy puller are completely preposterous. We are in the midst of an electric shitstorm and I can't talk the lightning out of hitting me. I also can't pretend that I have some sort of lightning resistant skin. I think the lightning will hit me, but I have to turn myself into a conductor and shoot everything out of my pores as hard as possible.
We are at a time in our lives where we cannot hold things inside anymore. The world is changing at such a rapid pace that if we don't start morphing along with these storm clouds, we will be left floating, lost, and shit out of luck. It's not going to cut it to look out for number one anymore. It's not going to cut it to be safe anymore. Life is too short, too fragile, to hold back.
We must do the dangerous, exciting, invigorating, novel worthy adventures we dream of. Because now is the time plant seeds.
Because the rain is coming.
My brain feels like this ominous southern storm cloud outside the cafe window, shifting and expanding in ways that don't even make sense. I have written and theorized a lot about my obsession with clouds, and the more I think about it, the more it clicks. The storm cloud is pulled by wind, airy and flowing yet heavy, oh so heavy, with what it has absorbed. My mind soaks up the water and dirt and poison from this earth and is pulled like taffy by the winds of this existence. Any illusion my naive, crazy ass mind has about understanding the mechanics of this taffy puller are completely preposterous. We are in the midst of an electric shitstorm and I can't talk the lightning out of hitting me. I also can't pretend that I have some sort of lightning resistant skin. I think the lightning will hit me, but I have to turn myself into a conductor and shoot everything out of my pores as hard as possible.
We are at a time in our lives where we cannot hold things inside anymore. The world is changing at such a rapid pace that if we don't start morphing along with these storm clouds, we will be left floating, lost, and shit out of luck. It's not going to cut it to look out for number one anymore. It's not going to cut it to be safe anymore. Life is too short, too fragile, to hold back.
We must do the dangerous, exciting, invigorating, novel worthy adventures we dream of. Because now is the time plant seeds.
Because the rain is coming.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Rain on a cold tin roof
Last night I laid my drunk ass down on a lovely memory foam mattress surrounded by enormous planks of wood and drapery. I stared up into the criss cross expanse of the church roof. The pipes were metallic snakes and the shadows seemed to go on forever. The serenity I felt in this former place of worship was pretty fucking cosmic. What a fitting place to hold me in this time of my life, this go big or go home time in my life. I mean god damn. I just look at my shadow beaming on the church wall from my bed lamp and I took up the whole fucking wall. I love feeling big.
As I gazed into this makeshift maze of plywood and pipe I heard Marika's sweet, quirky little giggle from the next partitioned room. I grabbed my cellphone and texted her "I love your giggle...not to be creepy". A few seconds later I heard he obnoxious alien sounding text ring, followed by the cutest giggle ever. Then I giggled, my belly heaving and my cheeks hurting from all the giggling we have been doing this past week. This is so right, we are partners in crime and partners in life. Oh how this journey is getting off to a running start.
Outside of our friendship, this city is also exploding with colors and endless possibilities. Serendipitously, the NOLA free school is percolating wonderfully and I am loving the way it is unfolding. The ideas are flowing in at high speed and progress is booming exponentially. I have joined the pedagogy committee, which is a perfect place for me as I thrive on ideas and theories. We are already selecting readings and developing a solid pedagogical statement together. We sat together in the courtyard of the Crossaint D'or cafe smoking, drinking coffee and theorizing next to an adorable white fountain of a little boy pissing. This city is so quirky.
There is a food co-op developing with much controversy as well. Marika and I went to their 'Tasty Ball' last night which was flooded with free food and people dressed up like vegetables. My new friend Noah had told me early that the building that houses the coop is owned by a 'gentrafucker', as he puts it, who is really fucking up New Orleans with his developments. Apparently, this man is allowing the food co-op to happen as a 'philanthropic' effort for the community. Noah argues that he is trying to get 'in' with bohemia so he can gentrify the neighborhood. I believe Noah, of course, so I had a long conversation with the woman who is spearheading the project. She was dressed up as a bunch of grapes, equipped with purple balloons and spandex. Despite her ridiculous costume, she was quite serious and interesting. She says she knows about how fucked up this guy is, but the project needs a space, and she feels it's important for the 'community'. Of course, my brain is always buzzing when I hear the word 'community' because, really, what the fuck does that mean? or look like? ya know?
I would expand on this more, but i don't want this post to be as epically long as the last one.
The apartment I just landed is perfect and apparently haunted. It's a studio apartment covered in brick with an attic loft big enough for sleeping. There are two courtyards with a coypond in the back, right in the heart of the French quarter. Marika is going to throw me rent so she can use the downstairs space as a work area, so I can super afford it. It's incredible for both of us. I am so grateful for this because it will not only give me a safe and super amazing location, but also the quiet and solitude I need to really work on my music and writing. I can invite the French Quarter buskers back to my place for beers and we can jam. I want to absorb as much music as possible. I only have 5 months with this place, i need to use it to its full potential.
As I sit at this darling white desk in my church 'guest room', my gut that was once screaming at me to come here is appeased by this synergy. The rain is dripping at a hypnotizing rhythm. It's all coming together, it's making sense. I feel the universe jiving with me in a way that I can toy with and lovingly manipulate.
Word.
love and boundless possibilities,
K
As I gazed into this makeshift maze of plywood and pipe I heard Marika's sweet, quirky little giggle from the next partitioned room. I grabbed my cellphone and texted her "I love your giggle...not to be creepy". A few seconds later I heard he obnoxious alien sounding text ring, followed by the cutest giggle ever. Then I giggled, my belly heaving and my cheeks hurting from all the giggling we have been doing this past week. This is so right, we are partners in crime and partners in life. Oh how this journey is getting off to a running start.
Outside of our friendship, this city is also exploding with colors and endless possibilities. Serendipitously, the NOLA free school is percolating wonderfully and I am loving the way it is unfolding. The ideas are flowing in at high speed and progress is booming exponentially. I have joined the pedagogy committee, which is a perfect place for me as I thrive on ideas and theories. We are already selecting readings and developing a solid pedagogical statement together. We sat together in the courtyard of the Crossaint D'or cafe smoking, drinking coffee and theorizing next to an adorable white fountain of a little boy pissing. This city is so quirky.
There is a food co-op developing with much controversy as well. Marika and I went to their 'Tasty Ball' last night which was flooded with free food and people dressed up like vegetables. My new friend Noah had told me early that the building that houses the coop is owned by a 'gentrafucker', as he puts it, who is really fucking up New Orleans with his developments. Apparently, this man is allowing the food co-op to happen as a 'philanthropic' effort for the community. Noah argues that he is trying to get 'in' with bohemia so he can gentrify the neighborhood. I believe Noah, of course, so I had a long conversation with the woman who is spearheading the project. She was dressed up as a bunch of grapes, equipped with purple balloons and spandex. Despite her ridiculous costume, she was quite serious and interesting. She says she knows about how fucked up this guy is, but the project needs a space, and she feels it's important for the 'community'. Of course, my brain is always buzzing when I hear the word 'community' because, really, what the fuck does that mean? or look like? ya know?
I would expand on this more, but i don't want this post to be as epically long as the last one.
The apartment I just landed is perfect and apparently haunted. It's a studio apartment covered in brick with an attic loft big enough for sleeping. There are two courtyards with a coypond in the back, right in the heart of the French quarter. Marika is going to throw me rent so she can use the downstairs space as a work area, so I can super afford it. It's incredible for both of us. I am so grateful for this because it will not only give me a safe and super amazing location, but also the quiet and solitude I need to really work on my music and writing. I can invite the French Quarter buskers back to my place for beers and we can jam. I want to absorb as much music as possible. I only have 5 months with this place, i need to use it to its full potential.
As I sit at this darling white desk in my church 'guest room', my gut that was once screaming at me to come here is appeased by this synergy. The rain is dripping at a hypnotizing rhythm. It's all coming together, it's making sense. I feel the universe jiving with me in a way that I can toy with and lovingly manipulate.
Word.
love and boundless possibilities,
K
Friday, January 28, 2011
Grrrl, ya aint in California anymore...
Hey there ya'll!
So...I should be geeking out on Craigslist trying to find a house and job, but instead, I've decided to start my Southern blog. This place is full of so many adventures and stories, I feel that it would be an injustice to my near and dear ones not to share.
I'll be real, this place is another fucking world. My new friend Sasha told me as he was riding home with me that this place is more like the rest of the world. The world is NOT a safe place. He rode his bike next to me for 10 blocks because it isn't safe to ride that short distance alone at 2am. It's just not. Bikers get cardoored and attacked, people are shot on their bikes and robbed, this shit is real. But that's also why I am head over heels obsessed with this place: it is REAL. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate bullshit, I don't bullshit, and I don't take bullshit. Neither does anybody here. This place has grit, guts, and a whole lot of pain.
Sounds like someone I know....;)
I'm still trying to find a place to live. Craigslist out here is pretty bleak, it's more old fashioned here. So, I decided to make a hilarious roommate sign and post it up in cafes where I want to live. We shall see how it goes. Soon, I'll post the flyer here cuz it's great and you'll get a good chuckle out of it I'm sure. I was going to get an apartment with a gang of rad queer grrrls, but I dont think I'm gonna do it anymore because...well...I got drunk and slept with one of them.
oops.
Speaking of amorous, drunken (mis)adventures, I think I'll tell ya'll a little story. Well actually, it's pretty long so read it if ya got some time to kill. I guarantee it's entertaining, though!
The other night Marika and I went to a bar for a birthday party show (it's super cute, people here having birthday shows all the time and post flyers everywhere for them!). As Marika was whispering in my ear about something brilliant and magic as per usual, I linked eyes with a beautiful traveler boy I keep seeing around town. I couldn't help but stupidly smile as he playfully poked his head back and forth behind his friend's, with a coy little boy smile that made my cheeks turn red. I saw him busking on Royal Street the first night I arrived in this gritty city and I couldn't get over his face. His eyes were dirty jade and his lips were pouty like he constantly wanted something, and I'm sure he probably does. I've seen him about 5 times since and to me, thats fate.
"Sorry, grrrl"
I said to Mar
"I'm distracted"
Being bold and slightly off my rocker, I strutted up to him, swaying my hips (probably) unnecessarily dramatically, lowered my eyelids and asked him:
"what? you don't dance?"
The banjo serendipitously amplified at that moment and with a one sided "I thought you'd never ask" smile, he reached for my hand and sprang up.
Now, he was tipsy and I ABSOLUTELY cannot partner dance. It's my nature to never allow anybody to lead me, and I'm super awkward, so...you can imagine how this went.
He is a foot taller than me so it naturally made sense to me to put my hand on HIS waste, not only because I'm super gender queer, but because it was like, practically at my shoulder level. He gripped my right and and we spun in circles and giggled and asked each other stupid questions about ourselves. I was snarky and weird as usual, overtly so, it's usually my gauge to see who's down with my personality. He was. He spun me around and around like drunken dradle and I don't think I've smiled so much in my life. At the end of the song, he attempted to (disasterously) dip me and we both toppled over. I warned him that I was deceptively heavy!
No one ever seems to listen to me.
Being a gentleman, as we were falling, he swung himself under me so I would fall on top of him instead of on the hardwood, dirty floor. I said my head on his chest and laughed hysterically and hugged him underneath the obviously perturbed, super cool crowd. This ridiculous debauchery continued for about an hour until the band finished playing. That time came where it was like...ok, the show's over but we don't want to stop hanging out. He asked me if I wanted to go home with him to his house in uptown where he lives with Bob, my new favorite person. He is living there for free in exchange for doing construction work on the house, and it's a punk house, so I knew it would be a shithole....
(and Uptown is crazyass far away.
and the streetcar is slower than muni...and runs once an hour
and it's not such a good idea to go home with random dudes in a new, dangerous place)
...However...he was way to beautiful to resist and I'm a sucker for a pretty face.
I pulled him away from the crowd and yanked him close. I discreetly said:
"You need to promise me you're not going to hurt me, and understand that I am not going to have sex with you tonight. If thats cool, I'll go with you"
His lips morphed into an innocent, amused grin
"Why would I ever want to hurt you? and I promise I won't try to sleep with you. We can cuddle and kiss and light candles. But if you would ever be obliged to make love to me in the future, I'd be honored"
I trusted him. I also trusted myself in my strength and ability to trust him.
I bit my bottom lip, grabbed his hand and we skipped stupidly down the street so we could catch the streetcar, because skipping is faster than walking, and oh so much more fun! When we arrived at the streetcar stop, the folks there told us we would have to wait another hour for the car. Ballz. I shrugged and looked at him with wide eyes.
"No problem, let's just go somewhere and make out"
I gave him my oh so perfected and mischievous "aren't I adorable?' grin and we linked pinkies and wandered down the street. We searched every dumpster on the block for late night snacks. Cold french fries taste reeeeaaal good when you're starving and broke. However, they just weren't enough so we continued on our search for food. The dumpsters were bleak so we parked our dorky asses on Canal street in front of the foot locker and proceeded to sweetly kiss each other. Kissing, in my opinion, is an art, and that's why I love kissing artistic people. Now, we can't partner dance with our feet for shit, but if kissing were a dance, we would make Ginger and Fred green with envy. Our lips and tongues spun and glided together to the rhythm of the butterflies' wings in our chests. Everyone was jealous of us.
The streetcar finally arrived and we parked ourselves on the wooden bench. I pulled out the anarchist newspaper I got that morning and showed it to hi. He took the paper from my hands and said "watch this..". He open the paper in front of our faces and leaned over to kiss me. We proceeded to makeout behind the 'Raging Pelican' for about 15 minutes. It would have made the cutest punkrock photograph. The streetcar moves about 5 mph and is one of the only forms of transportation in NOLA. It is really shocking how abandoned this city really is. We trudged along with our fellow exhausted passengers, and I read a long, beautiful poem outloud from the 'Raging Pelican". It spoke of the deep roots NOLA residents plant in this soggy earth, how ever after multiple disasters and chaos, this who love this city absolutely cannot uproot, despite nature and societies repeated attempts to blow them away.
I felt infinitely proud to live here.
We finally made it to his house in the Uptown. I had to pee really bad so I asked him to show me to the bathroom. To my alarm and amusement, the kitchen floor was only a quarter finished, and the rest was wooden planks above dirt. A 6 inch plank was placed diagonally across the 'floor' to lead to the bathroom. I had to literally walk the plank to pee. Slightly tipsy, I precariously made my way across the dark balance beam to the bathroom. On my walk back, I felt like I had achieved something great by pissing, like it was an obstacle course. The toilet, of course, didn't flush.
As promised he lit candles, and laid out a questionable mattress. I pushed aside my bedbug paranoia and laid my sorry ass down. The blankets smelled like hell, but so did I, so it wasn't really a thing. The room was freezing but we were warm, so we huddled as close as possible, and we both kept our respective promises. Let's keep it at that...
The next morning he whipped up a tomato soup, ramen, tuna surprise and stirred it with a phillips screwdriver on the quarter of the kitchen floor. I didn't eat any of it. Despite my best efforts, I'm really not that punk rock. I put on my coat and tipped my hat to him and his roommates. I placed my hand on his head, thanked him for a great night, and ventured out to find my way home.
The End. more to come soon!
love and fried chicken,
ksmash
So...I should be geeking out on Craigslist trying to find a house and job, but instead, I've decided to start my Southern blog. This place is full of so many adventures and stories, I feel that it would be an injustice to my near and dear ones not to share.
I'll be real, this place is another fucking world. My new friend Sasha told me as he was riding home with me that this place is more like the rest of the world. The world is NOT a safe place. He rode his bike next to me for 10 blocks because it isn't safe to ride that short distance alone at 2am. It's just not. Bikers get cardoored and attacked, people are shot on their bikes and robbed, this shit is real. But that's also why I am head over heels obsessed with this place: it is REAL. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate bullshit, I don't bullshit, and I don't take bullshit. Neither does anybody here. This place has grit, guts, and a whole lot of pain.
Sounds like someone I know....;)
I'm still trying to find a place to live. Craigslist out here is pretty bleak, it's more old fashioned here. So, I decided to make a hilarious roommate sign and post it up in cafes where I want to live. We shall see how it goes. Soon, I'll post the flyer here cuz it's great and you'll get a good chuckle out of it I'm sure. I was going to get an apartment with a gang of rad queer grrrls, but I dont think I'm gonna do it anymore because...well...I got drunk and slept with one of them.
oops.
Speaking of amorous, drunken (mis)adventures, I think I'll tell ya'll a little story. Well actually, it's pretty long so read it if ya got some time to kill. I guarantee it's entertaining, though!
The other night Marika and I went to a bar for a birthday party show (it's super cute, people here having birthday shows all the time and post flyers everywhere for them!). As Marika was whispering in my ear about something brilliant and magic as per usual, I linked eyes with a beautiful traveler boy I keep seeing around town. I couldn't help but stupidly smile as he playfully poked his head back and forth behind his friend's, with a coy little boy smile that made my cheeks turn red. I saw him busking on Royal Street the first night I arrived in this gritty city and I couldn't get over his face. His eyes were dirty jade and his lips were pouty like he constantly wanted something, and I'm sure he probably does. I've seen him about 5 times since and to me, thats fate.
"Sorry, grrrl"
I said to Mar
"I'm distracted"
Being bold and slightly off my rocker, I strutted up to him, swaying my hips (probably) unnecessarily dramatically, lowered my eyelids and asked him:
"what? you don't dance?"
The banjo serendipitously amplified at that moment and with a one sided "I thought you'd never ask" smile, he reached for my hand and sprang up.
Now, he was tipsy and I ABSOLUTELY cannot partner dance. It's my nature to never allow anybody to lead me, and I'm super awkward, so...you can imagine how this went.
He is a foot taller than me so it naturally made sense to me to put my hand on HIS waste, not only because I'm super gender queer, but because it was like, practically at my shoulder level. He gripped my right and and we spun in circles and giggled and asked each other stupid questions about ourselves. I was snarky and weird as usual, overtly so, it's usually my gauge to see who's down with my personality. He was. He spun me around and around like drunken dradle and I don't think I've smiled so much in my life. At the end of the song, he attempted to (disasterously) dip me and we both toppled over. I warned him that I was deceptively heavy!
No one ever seems to listen to me.
Being a gentleman, as we were falling, he swung himself under me so I would fall on top of him instead of on the hardwood, dirty floor. I said my head on his chest and laughed hysterically and hugged him underneath the obviously perturbed, super cool crowd. This ridiculous debauchery continued for about an hour until the band finished playing. That time came where it was like...ok, the show's over but we don't want to stop hanging out. He asked me if I wanted to go home with him to his house in uptown where he lives with Bob, my new favorite person. He is living there for free in exchange for doing construction work on the house, and it's a punk house, so I knew it would be a shithole....
(and Uptown is crazyass far away.
and the streetcar is slower than muni...and runs once an hour
and it's not such a good idea to go home with random dudes in a new, dangerous place)
...However...he was way to beautiful to resist and I'm a sucker for a pretty face.
I pulled him away from the crowd and yanked him close. I discreetly said:
"You need to promise me you're not going to hurt me, and understand that I am not going to have sex with you tonight. If thats cool, I'll go with you"
His lips morphed into an innocent, amused grin
"Why would I ever want to hurt you? and I promise I won't try to sleep with you. We can cuddle and kiss and light candles. But if you would ever be obliged to make love to me in the future, I'd be honored"
I trusted him. I also trusted myself in my strength and ability to trust him.
I bit my bottom lip, grabbed his hand and we skipped stupidly down the street so we could catch the streetcar, because skipping is faster than walking, and oh so much more fun! When we arrived at the streetcar stop, the folks there told us we would have to wait another hour for the car. Ballz. I shrugged and looked at him with wide eyes.
"No problem, let's just go somewhere and make out"
I gave him my oh so perfected and mischievous "aren't I adorable?' grin and we linked pinkies and wandered down the street. We searched every dumpster on the block for late night snacks. Cold french fries taste reeeeaaal good when you're starving and broke. However, they just weren't enough so we continued on our search for food. The dumpsters were bleak so we parked our dorky asses on Canal street in front of the foot locker and proceeded to sweetly kiss each other. Kissing, in my opinion, is an art, and that's why I love kissing artistic people. Now, we can't partner dance with our feet for shit, but if kissing were a dance, we would make Ginger and Fred green with envy. Our lips and tongues spun and glided together to the rhythm of the butterflies' wings in our chests. Everyone was jealous of us.
The streetcar finally arrived and we parked ourselves on the wooden bench. I pulled out the anarchist newspaper I got that morning and showed it to hi. He took the paper from my hands and said "watch this..". He open the paper in front of our faces and leaned over to kiss me. We proceeded to makeout behind the 'Raging Pelican' for about 15 minutes. It would have made the cutest punkrock photograph. The streetcar moves about 5 mph and is one of the only forms of transportation in NOLA. It is really shocking how abandoned this city really is. We trudged along with our fellow exhausted passengers, and I read a long, beautiful poem outloud from the 'Raging Pelican". It spoke of the deep roots NOLA residents plant in this soggy earth, how ever after multiple disasters and chaos, this who love this city absolutely cannot uproot, despite nature and societies repeated attempts to blow them away.
I felt infinitely proud to live here.
We finally made it to his house in the Uptown. I had to pee really bad so I asked him to show me to the bathroom. To my alarm and amusement, the kitchen floor was only a quarter finished, and the rest was wooden planks above dirt. A 6 inch plank was placed diagonally across the 'floor' to lead to the bathroom. I had to literally walk the plank to pee. Slightly tipsy, I precariously made my way across the dark balance beam to the bathroom. On my walk back, I felt like I had achieved something great by pissing, like it was an obstacle course. The toilet, of course, didn't flush.
As promised he lit candles, and laid out a questionable mattress. I pushed aside my bedbug paranoia and laid my sorry ass down. The blankets smelled like hell, but so did I, so it wasn't really a thing. The room was freezing but we were warm, so we huddled as close as possible, and we both kept our respective promises. Let's keep it at that...
The next morning he whipped up a tomato soup, ramen, tuna surprise and stirred it with a phillips screwdriver on the quarter of the kitchen floor. I didn't eat any of it. Despite my best efforts, I'm really not that punk rock. I put on my coat and tipped my hat to him and his roommates. I placed my hand on his head, thanked him for a great night, and ventured out to find my way home.
The End. more to come soon!
love and fried chicken,
ksmash
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