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though I suspect "fear", makes a person restless, travel hungry like this. Or maybe it's "desire", driving a person to Jamaica, or Mexico, or Tokyo, small towns in France hills, Warsaw, Sao Paulo, Montreal, Havana, Morocco, Atlantic City, Lucca Italy, or this. Could be simple old-fashioned wanderlust, remember that Kids? Hot in the vein like dandelion fluff, leather cases wrapped in scraps of fabric, suitcase on the train platform, waiting for a kiss.
Good Morning Avengers!
Some roses are blooming
meek, scraggled, hot
flourescent pink
The cat's eyes are weeping
relentlessly, black-rimmed
green, not pretty
The man eats a bowl
of yogurt and figs
reading yesterday's news
Bluejays returned with
yesterday's monsoon and one
fat purple Japanese plum
blossom's strident on the branch
It goes like this
unless it can't
poverty to abundance
thin to fat and back
in this world of blight and
parades. I face off every day
and questions of safety
and severe games of chance
and debris in piles along
the train tracks to the bakery
for a fresh apricot danish
plus maybe french roast with
Ghiradelli chocolate and cream
while they mark another neighborhood
robbery on the chalk board (hatch hatch hatch hatch cross-hatch hatch hatch hatch hatch)
just this month
and still over four thousand
dead.
(art work and installation by east coast artist Lise Prown)
1. For my wives to administer salve
2. Hem of cotton gown
3. The stub of a stick chewed down between teeth that will eat all the death from sky
4. We stood there, the dog and I
5. Coaxing the spider out for tea
6. Here kitty kitty
7. Each tip each strand just dipped in honey
8. Or molasses
9. He died again
10. But I did surpass this
11. My wives my wives with words and guns
12. are not afraid of anyone, brushing my brittle hairs
Just in case people still read, there's this issue of NYFA Current in which I contributed an essay on contemporary public art in New Orleans. FYI: NYFA Current rules.
And for when was it due, you ask? Why over the Mardi Gras holiday. Oh how I love a challenge, oh how I love the smell of fresh ink on hot skin, aren't I just the shit?
So to document this year's Carnival I have to start with Krewe du Vieux. Which I barely remember, it was so long ago, and so many lives have been lived and lost and born since then. But oh, that's right, I ended up separated from Ginger, a first, a thermos of rum something tucked under my arm, a pale man in a camel haired coat following me about. There was much walking, through and through, and the bands, oh they were stellar, beyond belief, blaring, full-on representing. Mules too. Then a long walk with boys in spandex body suits doing gymnastics in the Bywater crookeds, to strip and dance the cement floor of my house at least an inch lower. Then a big tumble we made to Saturn Bar to continue the dance with Mod Dance, Kristen and Matty ever-so-charming, and Peg giving me the finger, and nobody caring because she's a loon. Throws? Lots of boy toys, cups, bumper stickers, bullet casings, and some mammoth oyster beads.
The next shift was what, Barkus! A full day with my new dog, when a man said, "That dog ain't nothin but a ham, nothin but a ham." I think that's perfect being that we live smack dab in the belly of the pig, don't you? She pranced, shook, rolled over, swung her pistol round, and we loved every second of it. The sky was narrow, iced like old movies, and I got to put very special beads (that I bought at TJ's on the West Bank special designs w/K&B, JAX, Schwegmann's, and Creole tomatoes, which was a magical event unto itself, after Typhaine's brunch with a foot of bacon and mimosas and ping pong) on French Quarter royalty, and dance with drag queens, and fawn over little girls and boys. We then walked all around to hang with the Loose Marbles on Royal while Moosh sang a knife straight through those songs, star that she is. Gregory and I walked the long way home with Rosarita and a bottle of pinot grigot in a paper bag only to mosey to Kiyoko's for shrimp mosca and lots of grimy idealistic youth banging away on acoustic guitars while we sat staring at the covered hot tub steaming under bananas and fat stars.
There was the day Greg and I rode bikes down to the Quarter for him to play with the Loose Marbles at Café Beignet, tourist trap on Bourbon, but made fun by bloody marys and pistachios and lindy hopping. Girls fell in love with the boys and everyone waltzed it, veterans told me their war stories, banjo players told me their game, and I gave king cakes to the Jesus freaks screaming through the Quarter with the crosses on their backs, "God is not pleased!" I said, "Thank you for what you're doing," and I swear of all the things I've tried with them this was the very first time I disarmed them - that and the king cake - and maybe my beret. We went to Tatiana's to smoke on the balcony, playing War and eating warm bread, before biking it back home.
There was one night when Ginger came and after a day of wild ramblings on the Industrial Canal we went to the Hi-Ho for rock music and goofy antics of hipster boys. Many late nights at Mimi's spending far too much money on tapas, eggplant and polenta, red wine and cheese, laughing at French songs about sad women dying of consumption while men rode their bicycles forever in Paris. And d.b.a. to hang with my favorite bartenders and sit down next to Joren of all people! Who is now a dad! And talk of Hilary and John and feel close still to all of that. And Suzanne! The past comes roasting and we drink and dance. But not without St.Claude second lines, fierce as fierce can be, pulling me away from the essay to disappear for a few hours, or rushing out of Cap't Sal's with shrimp poboy dressed, falling all over myself to walk far into the 7th ward. Women in pink and green holding my hand and men passing the Popov, you don't say no, it's an honor, even a Newport, a keening bloody scream, a joy that grinds you down, walking home alone in fog dark. How many lipsticks I lost on the route, how many tears dried up turned to dust, thank you thank you I can't thank you enough.
Sirens and copters, like after Katrina, reclaiming the ambient musics, letting them be all things, bouncing back and forth, the boys on their motorcycles burning up the hurt. Days in the park with drunk girls climbing fences, friends showing up sleeping on the lawn chairs in their dresses. Jambalaya, eggs, black beans and rice, andouille, wings, corndogs, cotton candy, peanuts, hula hoops, boudin, coffee, rum, beer in a can. Pass it on over the fence, a plate of this, cup of that, cups of oranges and strawberries, Louisiana, early this year. How many parties, how many hello are you home calls, how many ladles of soup at the door. Mr.Okra never had okra but he always had cantaloupe, oh this Mardi Gras was deep for sure.
With the ubiquitous drive to Metairie to Michael's for fake flowers and sundries, a bit of glitter, some tiny birds? And Rainbow for a skirt, the Costume Shoppe with Ginger for wigs and eyelashes, and always always always Dorignac's for kingcake. Gregory's brother came in from Colorado, we made him a bed he hardly slept in. Me & the dog walked with Krewe of Eres which Gregory played banjo in, a massive band starting at the tracks, original compositions, like Mingus on air. Swung us right to the Quarter where I trounced with the Grand Marshall of Box of Wine, getting our picture taken, buying drinks, a swell time! Long walks shearing my heels down, my calves are marble now, fishnets bought and torn, river ships long gone.
Lundi Gras a delight of flurry of fabric and dye. I became coquette, minx-y cat and mouse, with red leather Majorette boots authentic from Texas, purple tights, pink eyes, we turned up the music loud. People in and out and over and to bed to bed for me! Mardi Gras day I could not get up quick enough before everyone began falling in, Elizabeth, do you have any red glitter? Elizabeth, where's the champagne? Elizabeth, are there any safety pins? Elizabeth, can I eat this? It was a cacophony and shaking, if it weren't for Ginger pinning the flowers in my hair, every year, every year, every year she pins the flowers or horns or bones in my hair. It's our thing, and she was Manga, and we were sporty, and we were anxious to walk free! Perfect timing got out the gate and turned the corner to Storyville Stompers coming down from Bud Rip's, that's all there is to it, Jane leading, whistle blowing, Sallie Ann, sun high, we lumbered and langoured, we followed a thin sigh, Mardi Gras Mardi Gras it will kill you but can't it last forever on and on?
How to write of the rest of The Day? After shaking through the Bywater with our boys and our band, arm in arm Ginger pale with fever, landing at RBar & all of us family together, finding Ginger a safe place to go to be sick (horrible bronchitis we all got it) I was on my own. I kept thinking I was behind the band when actually I was ahead. And when I found them it was a treasure to smile, to pass the bottle, to keep the tourists and cameramen from stopping dead in front of us, you have to walk or step aside. They gave me a whistle! I got to blow for St. Anne! And this year we kept right on to Canal, they moved the barricades for us and we second-lined all the way to Chartres - a first. Always always a first. Then the break and I found Indians, I got hit by a man, I hit him back, I got loved by a woman, I loved her back. I made it to the river where a small flock of doves surrounded me, kissing my shoulders down on the rocks. This year I put my hands in the water and then the band came and it was over, just like that.
Of course we walked, my gays and I, to the coffee shop for joe w/Jamesons. Of course I danced at the outdoor café and ate shrimp toasts with George at Yuki's. Of course I met Jenny as usual in the back of d.b.a. during Klezmer's and teased Rob Wagner the goof. Of course I searched the now night light for a familiar face and called Greg to come pick me up. Peeling the boots off my stockings off my skin, I went a long ways out to come back again, never the same, never again, one more Mardi Gras day done did.
And people, in the dead middle of it I drove to Texas and got all my stuff out of storage. I wrote this essay and hired an assistant. I opened a bank account and hired a lawyer. Cleaned house a good few times over, cooked, cleaned, cooked. Walked the dog and paid the bills. Because that's how we do it, here in the real dream - this is the only way I can live!
"Your everyday life will be marked with very
pleasant friendly encounters and with some small health problems such
as cold, allergy, constipation. You'll live intense moments; you'll
give the finishing touch to a long-term work, or you'll see one of your
dearest ambitions realized. You won't be on the same wavelength as your
employer; don't persist, adopt a low figure, look for co-ordination,
and avoid disputes."
connect with the neighborhood’s population who cannot go to museum openings and do not feel part of the dialogue raging concerning what to do with their neighborhoods. Children and parents living in abominable tenement conditions joined us after school to play around the art, numerous homeless people worked to insure the success of the work, everyone helped divvy up daily food and coffee donations from local businesses, members of the press visited and documented the event (and subsequently the condition of the neighborhood), and university students, professors, and established artists/collectors visited an area of the city they might normally bypass. New relationships were fostered, visitors were inspired to volunteer to work in the neighborhood with rebuilding, storm related trash was removed, a sense of pride was restored, and for a brief moment there was something else to see
“ We need a thinking that does not fall apart in the face of horror”
- George Bataille
“When you improve a little each day, eventually big things occur.”
– John Wooden
