You don't have to go far from New Orleans to reach Louisiana. For jurisdictional purposes, they might be one and the same within certain contours. But for those who have been inside the castle walls, the place where grow men sway on cobbled streets with plastic cups is not quite the same as the land that elects the likes of David Vitter. This here's New Orleans. That there is something far different.
So I have seen. The past couple weeks I've been pushing down the handlebars on a rusty green Schwinn through something resembling Real America. It's the kind of place where the women call you "sweetie" and some whites use Blacks as a noun. The roads are terrible, the rain is harsh, the radio stations begin with "K," the means of transport is by pickup and people live a proud existence hovering somewhere near the classification of upper lower class. They are the 18%.
I have been the Stranger in a Strange Land before, but this time I feel both parties have been accentuated just a little more slightly toward our opposing poles. I do recognize this place, I've let Hollywood and mass media do the set design and arrange the cast for years. It's a bit like The Truman Show if he had been a viewer long before setting foot inside the bubble. We all know what stereotypes are, but what about when the papyrus, not just the print, has been set before? What do we call it when an entire world exists that is exactly as it had been painted for your mind's eye? That's the West Bank.
With a little added tension, of course. To hear one cabbie tell it, Madame Katrina brought some new demographics over the Old River and the residents didn't exactly bake them cookies. It's not so much that old habits die hard as they live hard, firmly, entrenched into the social fabric of this port town. For a town accustomed to passing water and itinerant traders, verdant growth from below and hell-breathed cleansing rains from above, it's damn impressive that anything has staying power. The old formula of poverty and isolation, sprinkled with a little too much credence in Granddaddy's worldview, leaves us with some heel-stompin' racism.
Of course, that's just my take. And just who am I? That's still a work in progress. Older and firmer than before? Aye. But also still subject to the whim and winds around, taking in my surroundings and trying new companions on for size. A bit cautiously, as you can imagine. I sure do love the gumbo, but there are a few water-borne illnesses to which I care not to be susceptible.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Hustle
These things happen. Not just the writer's block, the writer's pause, the passing of time without production; I'm talking about the treadmill. This was supposed to be my water break. Now was the time to raise the chin, open the jaw, spray some fluid in and let the heart beat settle down while scoping out the molded ass of some bored housewife on the nearby machine. Instead, I'm back on it. No rest for the wicked or those executing ill-conceived notions about old vehicles. Odd bedfellows we make, but work we must endure.
I made it to the Big Easy, albeit with the New York State of Mind. Not in the sense of wanting to be walking along the snowdrifts laden with cigarette butts or huddled in some trendy coffee shop staring at a screen. More so vis-a-vis seeing dollar signs everywhere, hearing cash registers ka-ching! at every turn of the ear and whatever onomatopoeia coincides with thirsty creditors with every phone ring. There is money to be made, money to be paid, and this just so happens to be where I am. No spare change for the gutterpunks, no drink other than the $2 PBR, no way I'd turn down anything that could generate a little bacon. I might be downriver and this town may have its own clocks, but we are in the age of global capital. We're not so different as we'd like to think.
Another city, another hustle. Another day, another alarm sounding before the roosters. Another morning of hard-boiled eggs and pushing down handlebars on streets still bereft of cars and horns. This time, my commute is broken up by a five minute ferry ride across the Mississippi to a point due south commonly referred to as the West Bank. Once I reach the other side, I get to look up from my gears to see signs advertising boiled crawfish, po boys, and all manner of automotive services. There are a couple tall bridges and several uninspiring oil refineries. There are no yoga studios or businesses providing wifi, but I'm sure one or two of them slings drinks for a good three-fourths of this earth's spinning hours.
It's a chance to see the other side of the muddy tracks at a clip of $20 per hour. Do something mindless, keep the rent paid, dream about the next job that provides benefits and, if I'm feeling particularly randy, dream about the Big Dream. That's what the hours are for, after all.
Tomorrow won't be the same as Tuesday, even if my destination was the same. Tomorrow I have to hustle back from the West Bank to Arabi with a brief shower in between. Of course, Tuesday had its own cosmetics via a long overdue hair-trimming as a patron at an otherwise black barbershop in Marrero. It doesn't really fit into the scheme, be it this brief thread or whatever passes for the Great Saga of my existence. Except that for some reason, I think it does.
I made it to the Big Easy, albeit with the New York State of Mind. Not in the sense of wanting to be walking along the snowdrifts laden with cigarette butts or huddled in some trendy coffee shop staring at a screen. More so vis-a-vis seeing dollar signs everywhere, hearing cash registers ka-ching! at every turn of the ear and whatever onomatopoeia coincides with thirsty creditors with every phone ring. There is money to be made, money to be paid, and this just so happens to be where I am. No spare change for the gutterpunks, no drink other than the $2 PBR, no way I'd turn down anything that could generate a little bacon. I might be downriver and this town may have its own clocks, but we are in the age of global capital. We're not so different as we'd like to think.
Another city, another hustle. Another day, another alarm sounding before the roosters. Another morning of hard-boiled eggs and pushing down handlebars on streets still bereft of cars and horns. This time, my commute is broken up by a five minute ferry ride across the Mississippi to a point due south commonly referred to as the West Bank. Once I reach the other side, I get to look up from my gears to see signs advertising boiled crawfish, po boys, and all manner of automotive services. There are a couple tall bridges and several uninspiring oil refineries. There are no yoga studios or businesses providing wifi, but I'm sure one or two of them slings drinks for a good three-fourths of this earth's spinning hours.
It's a chance to see the other side of the muddy tracks at a clip of $20 per hour. Do something mindless, keep the rent paid, dream about the next job that provides benefits and, if I'm feeling particularly randy, dream about the Big Dream. That's what the hours are for, after all.
Tomorrow won't be the same as Tuesday, even if my destination was the same. Tomorrow I have to hustle back from the West Bank to Arabi with a brief shower in between. Of course, Tuesday had its own cosmetics via a long overdue hair-trimming as a patron at an otherwise black barbershop in Marrero. It doesn't really fit into the scheme, be it this brief thread or whatever passes for the Great Saga of my existence. Except that for some reason, I think it does.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Real Life
No disrespect to Sir Robert, but it's a soft rain that's falling this night. He's right about the warning thunder, the laughing and the starving, the crawling on the crooked highways. If there's any vindication to be felt, it's in knowing that the drops fall softer and less frequent than his ominous premonition foresaw. I could also liken the roof of this second-story balcony to shelter from the storm, but that would be the obvious play.
There is no temptation to read the tea leaves, not that their message could be any less clear. We're at about that part of the story where we hit the Cue Miss Friends button on the heart every time another hour wanders into the next just a little bit too slowly. We're at about that time where the true weight of what is left behind is pushing the needle even further to the right, while the what remains hovers near the origin and what lies ahead still too distant to be assigned any value. Throw in some red ink on the credit card statement, one less zero in the bank balance, and a lot of free time that could otherwise be directed towards reversing the aforementioned trends and the result is something resembling human vulnerability. Ever the optimist, I'd like to call it a catalyst.
Yes, there have been some thoughts about stability. This was going to be the move where all the bags were unpacked, those posters finally framed, a tapestry or two unfurled across some newly acquired "piece" of "furniture." It was this notion of growing-up that most feel at twenty-two finally sweeping over me on a ten year delay. Something familiar, once pedestrian, suddenly bearing some previously unfathomable sheen. The vision was so genuine I even contemplated a -gasp!- career.
And I still do, with reservations. I like the silhouette of myself coming home and setting the overcoat on the rack by the door, a frantic race between the 2.3 kids and the family dog for daddy's first embrace coming into the foreground. Then the silhouette gets color and texture and I see the bags under daddy's eyes. The slumped shoulders. The steak sauce stain on daddy's shirt. Daddy doesn't look happy so much as relieved, and mommy's about to tell him that Somebody forgot to pay the deductible.
It's life, and it's my misfortune to have visions of it at its blissful worst. Other people, specific someones from my past, do not share these visions. They don't share them to the extent that upon relaying the tragicomic tale that is January 2013, they don't see why a bachelor party at a music festival seems less appealing than the one grand said festival's tickets could yield. Ditto that the connection said yield could do for one's financial situation. In short, one dear friend who blacks out with frequency and has slept with at least, I repeat, at least one dozen prostitutes is telling me it's time to grow up.
Maybe Sir Robert was right.
But then one small job began today, and it went as well as it could. There's the phone interview for fifteen hours of work coming tomorrow morning. And let's not get too ahead of ourselves here, but there have been two Real Jobs posted for which I have Real Interest and I did apply. Progress. Momentum. New beginnings.
Of course, then the sun sets and the rain does fall and there are no 2.3 kids, no family dog, and nothing to do but cook one meal and look inside oneself. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I spent the last part of it under the porch, watching the rain, flopping down some of them written words.
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin', and it all felt just right to me.
There is no temptation to read the tea leaves, not that their message could be any less clear. We're at about that part of the story where we hit the Cue Miss Friends button on the heart every time another hour wanders into the next just a little bit too slowly. We're at about that time where the true weight of what is left behind is pushing the needle even further to the right, while the what remains hovers near the origin and what lies ahead still too distant to be assigned any value. Throw in some red ink on the credit card statement, one less zero in the bank balance, and a lot of free time that could otherwise be directed towards reversing the aforementioned trends and the result is something resembling human vulnerability. Ever the optimist, I'd like to call it a catalyst.
Yes, there have been some thoughts about stability. This was going to be the move where all the bags were unpacked, those posters finally framed, a tapestry or two unfurled across some newly acquired "piece" of "furniture." It was this notion of growing-up that most feel at twenty-two finally sweeping over me on a ten year delay. Something familiar, once pedestrian, suddenly bearing some previously unfathomable sheen. The vision was so genuine I even contemplated a -gasp!- career.
And I still do, with reservations. I like the silhouette of myself coming home and setting the overcoat on the rack by the door, a frantic race between the 2.3 kids and the family dog for daddy's first embrace coming into the foreground. Then the silhouette gets color and texture and I see the bags under daddy's eyes. The slumped shoulders. The steak sauce stain on daddy's shirt. Daddy doesn't look happy so much as relieved, and mommy's about to tell him that Somebody forgot to pay the deductible.
It's life, and it's my misfortune to have visions of it at its blissful worst. Other people, specific someones from my past, do not share these visions. They don't share them to the extent that upon relaying the tragicomic tale that is January 2013, they don't see why a bachelor party at a music festival seems less appealing than the one grand said festival's tickets could yield. Ditto that the connection said yield could do for one's financial situation. In short, one dear friend who blacks out with frequency and has slept with at least, I repeat, at least one dozen prostitutes is telling me it's time to grow up.
Maybe Sir Robert was right.
But then one small job began today, and it went as well as it could. There's the phone interview for fifteen hours of work coming tomorrow morning. And let's not get too ahead of ourselves here, but there have been two Real Jobs posted for which I have Real Interest and I did apply. Progress. Momentum. New beginnings.
Of course, then the sun sets and the rain does fall and there are no 2.3 kids, no family dog, and nothing to do but cook one meal and look inside oneself. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I spent the last part of it under the porch, watching the rain, flopping down some of them written words.
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin', and it all felt just right to me.
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