Yesterday I walked down Bourbon at 4:30pm, a monsoon in hand and a giggling friend by my side. We stopped in a overpriced sex shop and chatted casually with the five people inside. I tried on a teddy over leggings and a tshirt, all the while discussing the super bowl win like it had happened within the last three years. The smells of crawfish, horribly out of season, somehow wafted towards Canal between 80s pop sung by tourists and the obscure family, toting children into a place they may not belong. It’s good to be back by the Quarter.
Things are improving all around from a rocky start, and while things are not easy, they are good.
Sometimes I think of married people as a unit, and sometimes I think of them as separate people, and either way, I seem to be wrong. When I think of a couple as a unit, and I mean specifically married people. Namely people married over 15 years. And people who mean to stay married. As in, 15 years and counting, no plans to end it ever. THAT type of married. When I think of those folks as a unit, I feel like I’m neglecting their unique person-ness, and their differences, and their ability to be autonomous. It feels insulting almost, and not cool. However, thinking of them as seperate might minimize the importance of their life partner. The person that they (usually, in my limited experience) live with, share offspring with, the person on their bank account for crying out loud-is disregarded. They stand alone and the lighting falls differently. Either way, I’m doing a disservice to someone. There is probably a grayscale setting for this situation, but I wonder if I shouldn’t just steer clear completely. Married people maybe got married because they can’t date anymore. And maybe those of us who can date should stay the fuck away.
I am coming up with mad mythical ideas for my Darina story, and cannot wait to tell Ave of my brilliance.
Too many people get shot in the south for me to move back completely yet. (I say “yet” because I have hope that it will change. People like Winter and Nordette give me this faith.) I am afraid to have my black friends hang around outside where I’m staying in St Bernard parish, because they are black and it’s St Bernard parish. This is an area where people will disclose color for no reason, and usually follow it with statements like, “but they’re nice people”. This is a place where a woman can dump her boyfriend, and he can break down her door and threaten her life, and calling the cops may only make it worse if he has a gun. And it’s the south. They all have guns: plural. It’s only been two years away from the Bible belt, and I’m spoiled. I also need far more veggies and far fewer fried items in my daily diet. At least the humidity still doesn’t bother me…..I say, in October.
It feels odd to love someone, or some place, as much as I love this city, and know it’s not where I need to be.
New Orleans makes me want to practice magick. I wish I’d brought my cards. Liz said I should have, and after the fiasco fallout from early trip drama, I wish I had now. I never did pull for my birthday. I’m only just now starting to feel 29. I told someone today that I was almost 30, and it was not in a negative context.
The sun is rising. I should go to bed.