Archive for October, 2007

We’re all just like Britney Spears down South

Monday, October 29th, 2007

I told one of my party revelers from this weekend that I felt like Britney Spears on Saturday morning but by Sunday morn, I felt like her mama. I just got a text from one of my attendees “damn girl, you throw one fuck of a party” – now you know, we do know how to behave here in the South, but sometimes, every once in a Blue Moon or in this case a BIG FAT MOON – girls have to get a little of the wildness out of our systems. Thank god we stayed close to home to do it. If you discount the boat ride down the bayou under the big silvery moon I didn’t leave the house all weekend.

Ode to the Bayou

Monday, October 29th, 2007

If there is any sight more beautiful than the bayou glistening under the light from my window – I would like to know it.

Peeling back the layers

Monday, October 29th, 2007

Why is it that the most rote of routines – up at 5ish – dogs fed – dogs walked (Arlene dragging, Loca pulling) – a run – breakfast and tea and the Times Picayune – then to my desk by 7:30AM for Monday’s work – can bring so much joy to my life?

Note to self: recall this realization when you’re restless by Thursday.

The illusion of time

Sunday, October 28th, 2007

On this Sunday – one day of my life, one page in my book – where the music from Voodoo Fest is dominating the otherwise languid air and the brown pelican dives repeatedly for fish outside in the bayou – I find my mind bouncing from topic to topic, not completing one thought before beginning another thought – the curse of even my Sunday afternoon carved up into a multitasking event.

But where my mind keeps bouncing is what is intriguing me more than the fact that it bounces – it bounces, therefore I am – what I am thinking about is time and place and age and these sorts of intangibles that are never quantifiable with the quantitative. Well, at least not for me.

My mind flutters around and lands on place – how long have I been living at the LaLa? I’m staring at the brown pelican as if he is an old friend. It seems I have never lived anywhere else. The Can? Pishaw, I can’t remember a night there. Marin? Did I live there? San Francisco – North Beach – Portrero Hill – the French Quarter – General Pershing – Napoleon Avenue – these places are all carved up as single image memories but when the camera rolls, it is here that I am – here that is home.

And time, my love, my weakness – my fear of losing it – I feel as if I lost this weekend to excess when surely my daily affirmations speak about this – about how to guard against excess unless that is what I am seeking – and yet I know why the caged Rachel is moved to excess – no release of energy through her usual outlet – exercise – as always she needs to run, to jump, to move, to work through a restlessness that is so much a part of her metabolism, she’d be lost in neutral.

Okay, enough third person for godsakes – how about age? – and this age I am at right now which feels the most natural age to be at – and yet ironically I am fighting this age with chemicals that peel my skin right off my face. How is it possible that I can connect with Jake who is 3.5 years old as if we have walked around the globe together? What made Flower seem like a kindred spirit even though she is half my age. What trick in nature is it that gives some people wisdom beyond their years?

When too much of a good thing is too much

Sunday, October 28th, 2007

On Friday evening, some friends stopped by to see how I was doing and ended up hanging out and listening to music and dancing. They left at around 2AM. Then pretty much the same group reappeared on Saturday morning for breakfast and never left until late last night. It was porch hanging, dancing, champagne, kick up your heels – and wave to all the festival goers – but here it is Sunday morning and it feels more like a lost weekend – so beautiful outside, but I’m still chained to the inside – body craving a bike ride, a walk, and instead at 5AM this morning when I woke and fed the dogs and started walking Loca in that just before dawn pitch blackness at around 6AM, I was suddenly struck with a bad case of Eli – after I crossed the footbridge, I turned around and came home. It didn’t feel good being out in the dark – could be good intuition but also could just as easily have been self imposed Eli from having spent an almost 24-hour period having a little too much fun and not enough rest and relaxation – which is what my body craved and my mind needed – or wait, maybe it needed a blow out – hard to tell.

It’s beautiful outside, but I’m not. . .

Friday, October 26th, 2007

It is so gorgeous outside – a fall day – there is music drifting over from City Park as Voodoo Fest is underway – kids are canoeing in the bayou – the sky is a perfect blue – it’s going to be hard to stay inside this weekend and nurse my face along while the neighborhood is gunho with music, festivities, people – man of mystery called saying he remembered last year when we biked over to Voodoo Fest (he’s moving to Portland, a whole exiled group forming over there) – here is a pic of my dogs looking at my face and saying, “Aw, what did you go and do that for?”

dogs.jpg

Girls gone wild weekend coming up

Friday, October 26th, 2007

My neighbor is a biologist and works for the Wildlife and Fisheries – he was identifying all the things stuck to the bottom of my canoe for me last night – mussels, barnacles – that I have to scrape off.

Meanwhile, he and his partner head off to the wildnerness and live like heathens for two months every year out of a camp they half built – they hunt, they fish, they do whatever it is in god’s name men do when they are without women, with no running water, out in the wilderness. I don’t want to know.

Life is simple for them during this period. Except for one weekend in December – yes, that’s right – his girlfriend has invited a select group of survivalists for a Girls Gone Wild Weekend to join these aboriginees – so, we will be packing up our tents and sleeping bags and bug spray and whatever else we need and joining the boys in the swamp so we can take a detour to the wild side.

Now this should be fun.

When you are wrong, go on the offense? No?

Friday, October 26th, 2007

That’s just what Bush did in California when he decided to take a jab at Louisiana’s Governor and her competence post-Katrina – I ask any person to stand in her place and tell me what they would have done? Maybe she didn’t rise to the occasion, maybe she didn’t end up being Rudy Guiliani post 9/11, but Bush is an utter and complee embarrassment to the people of Louisiana and the United States.

I’ve gone abroad twice and never before have I heard of a president so reviled as Bush Jr. What’s good is that no one hates Americans – they just hate Bush and his administration so thank god we will be rid of that nightmare within a year’s period of time. As far as what happened here in Louisiana – he is not welcome here – he is not our leader – he failed us utterly from start to finish and that he is such an imbecile that he would take this moment to go on the offensive about what happened here while standing there in California is just the lowest low a human being can sink to. And proves yet again, that he is the dumbest president that ever ruled the United States of America.

Bless his heart.

When art comments on art

Thursday, October 25th, 2007

Ever read Eudora Welty’s Powerhouse – it’s her version of trying to write about jazz after experiencing a jazz musician who entranced her? Or my friend Chris Cressionne used to paint to my brother Robert Namer’s talk radio program. Okay, that’s right, I’m throwing these two in the same vein. I came across this poem today on a website I like.

Time and Materials
Gerhard Richter: Abstrakt Bilden

I.

To make layers,
As if they were a steadiness of days:

It snowed; I did errands at a desk;
A white flurry out the window thickening; my tongue
Tasted of the glue on envelopes.

On this day sunlight on red brick, bare trees,
Nothing stirring in the icy air.

On this day a blur of color moving at the gym
Where the heat from bodies
Meets the watery, cold surface of the glass.

Made love, made curry, talked on the phone
To friends, the one whose brother died
Was crying and thinking alternately,
Like someone falling down and getting up
And running and falling and getting up.

2.

The object of this poem is not to annihila

To not annih

The object of this poem is to report a theft,
In progress, of everything
That is not these words
And their disposition on the page.

The object o f this poem is to report a theft,
In progre ss of everything that exists
That is not th ese words
And their d isposition on the page.

The object of his poe is t epro a theft
In rogres f ever hing at xists
Th is no ese w rds
And their disp sit on o the pag

To score, to scar, to smear, to streak,
To smudge, to blur, to gouge, to scrape.

“Action painting,” i.e.,
The painter gets to behave like time.

The typo would be “paining.”

(To abrade.)

Or to render time and stand outside
The horizontal rush of it, for a moment
To have the sensation of standing outside
The greenish rush of it.

6.

Some vertical gesture then, the way that anger
Or desire can rip a life apart,

Some wound of color.

Robert Hass

Voodoo Fest

Thursday, October 25th, 2007

The music has started jamming down the street in City Park as the sound systems are getting ready for Voodoo Fest. I’m held captive in my house by voluntary consignment. I’m a pumpkin before Halloween.