Festival. Festival. Festival. (Or, the day I accidentally stalked Davis Rogan for half a day)

 Up up up early early so I can catch a bus and head out to the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival. You know what’s great? Karissa (the organizer) recognized my ability to lead and let me take care of the sales table for a few hours. Then she wanted me to be a site director… which I would have done… if it weren’t for the fact that I really wanted to go to Palm Court for some really amazing panels about New Orleans and Music. And when I reminded her that the panels I wanted to attend were at another location she was fine with it (because we’d talked about it before). 

It was refreshing to hear, “How long do we have you? Which events did you want to attend? Let’s make sure you get there and get to enjoy them!” And every time I turned around someone was thanking me for just being there. 

I liked volunteering for the festival. I was thinking about the Border Book Festival the entire time. But not in a close your eyes and think of England sort of way. Volunteering for TWNOLF was enjoyable and I’m looking forward to working with the organization again. 

Of course, I couldn’t relate to a lot of the workshops, panels and artists. It was a very southern affair. On that count, I miss the southwest. 

I did get to see two panels on New Orleans music in The Palm Court Jazz Cafe

 The first one featuring John Swenson, author of New Atlantis. The book focuses on the return of musical artists and the music scene to NOLA after Katrina. Mr. Swenson knows his shit, and I really want to the book (but it’s a $28 hardback…. So… yeah… that’s going to have to wait). 

Davis Rogan was also there. Yeah, a year ago I would have been all, “Who the fuck is Davis Rogan?” But then Jon introduced me to a little show called Treme. 

So this is Davis Rogan. (It’s a long but hilarious video, the best one I could swipe from YouTube) 

And this is DJ Davis from Treme. 

And all this brings up a very important question that I was faced with in the first week of moving to New Orleans. As a transplant New Orleanian… where do I stand on the show Treme? 

I’m going to go ahead and say it (even if that means I am issued outsider points for it). I fucking like the show. No. Love it. 

Any instance in which a fucking television show manages to call attention to the many injustices issued by local, state and federal government/society in a way that instigates and mobilizes concern from those outside of the situation gets an A fucking Plus in my book. 

And it’s done well. The show creators didn’t import a crap ton of big names with nice tits and rugged chins to portray pathetic caricatures of people who will stop at nothing to get what they want and then get it and everything is happily ever after. No. The characters have to be broken, deconstructed, and wobbily rebuilt… on the promise that things are going to be utterly broken again and again.  

So I fell in love with the show. I could give you a frame by frame of why this show is awesome. The scene where LaDonna freaks out about her rapist being released, while her husband realizes that the woman he loves is trapped because he left her behind? The scene gives me chills. Every. Single. Time. The slow decline of Antoine Batiste's ego-- from fame chasing, 'bone playing DOG to disgruntled music teacher of under-privileged (but not under-talented) middle school musicians? Realistic.

And now that I live here…. I kinda get shit for it sometimes. But loving the show is worth it. In any case, Davis Rogan is the musical adviser for one of the best shows on television. And he’s hilarious. And fucking tall. 

After the panel I had to check out the New Orleans Road Food Festival. I had tamales, pulled pork and a mint julep (with monies raised going to the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival).  

I sit down in some shade and guess who shows up on stage? Davis Rogan is reverse stalking me.

I just saw him play in an air-conditioned bar for the last hour though, so I’m not about to sit in the sun and listen to him again. So it’s off to the New Orleans Healing Center First Annual Sacred Music Festival where I volunteered again—taking tickets and watching the artists entrance. I got to listen to so amazing Buddhist chants. I loved the monks. They were adorable yet potent with language. 

“We make this chant to cut the things that make pain in life. Not with a weapon. But with thoughts.” 

Oh my heart melted. Yes, life is pain and suffering. You can find at least one thing that cuts away at those elements and you are left with a chest full of strength, a heart full of creation and can breathe without burden.

So write. Or play. Or sing. Just find that thing that helps you chisel away the pain.

Good God did it rain today!

It rained non-stop for the better part of the morning. Then off and on during the afternoon. A good break in the early evening. And now it’s consistent downpour. 

There was a flood warning for my neighborhood during the afternoon, but I charged around in Cher’s rain boots anyway (I had to go sign paperwork on a new job at Community Coffee House!). I need to get my own rain boots and a slicker. 

I know a few concerned friends and family members have been thinking about it. And I’m told by many people at work that I need to start thinking about it. So sometimes I think about “it.” The big “IT.” 

I have to create an “evacuation plan.” Everyone says so. 

It’s just not “me.” I know I have the tendency to be pessimistic and over-worrisome… BUT I’m not preoccupied with the concepts of natural disaster. My sister was issued that segment of DNA inherited from both of our parents. I, on the other hand, seem naturally attracted to extreme nature. For instance, I love (I mean, love so hard it turns me on) thunderstorms. Maybe I’m immune to natural disaster/ extreme weather panic. I DID want to be a storm chaser when I was a child (also an astronaut, but that dream was destroyed when I realized I sucked at math so hard).  

People here keep warning me about possible flooding in the streets. When they talk to me about these thigns (flooding/storms/hurricanes) there’s a hanging expectation that I should be…. Frantic, overwhelmed, distraught by the horrible inconvenience and danger. I think people are disappointed when I nod at them, shrug and say, “Ok.” 

OK! 

Honestly, sometimes it’s like I’ve disappointed co-workers when I’m not afraid of what they have to say about storms and worse. 

I didn’t move here without thinking about these things. Rain falls, storms blow, hurricanes whip the world like fitful gods, and man-made structures fail. I’m not simple. I’m not stupid. I’m not a wailing, wilting woman who came here in complete ignorance. I spent my last semester in school crash coursing (and passing excellently) in Environmental Geography. I realize that our planets behavior breathes in rhythms and in reaction. I understand that living next to a meandering river mouth by a gulf is dangerous. I realize that the centuries of manipulation of the same river has caused major problems in the realm of physics. 

I’m in the Garden District. I’m in the area where water jogs feverishly during a storm… until it turns a large corner to a deadly sprint towards the Ninth Ward. I’m not surprised by this information. Actually, after having learned all the science behind it, I was utterly crestfallen that those in charge of my country didn’t “see it coming.” But that’s not a case for me to argue, because I’m new here.

That said, I’m a little tired of people trying to scare me with the news that I’ve moved into a water logged land.  

Get out! NO! I did?! Shut up! 

My evacuation plan is going to be seriously complicated by the fact that I plan on moving Tifty, Mu and Alia down here. Evacuating with three pets when you don’t own a car? I’m still not sure how that is going to work out. Either I think of something to get all of us out together or I won’t evacuate. I’m not going to budge on that point. Tifty is a spaz and wouldn’t make it day in the street. Alia is a big baby and would lose if a rat tried to face off with her. And Mu? Well, he’s my boo. 

And don’t even get me started on the idea of someone telling me to leave town without my library.I don't even know how I'm going to begin to negotiate with myself on how that's going to go down. If ever!

Foray into the Volunteer Realm

Yesterday I motivated myself enough to travel all around and make sure that I get some volunteering done. I’m still trying to find a literacy/social justice sort of non-profit to work with. In the mean time I’ll focus on the arts and food, two things that are also very important to me. 

First stop the 26th Annual Tennessee Williams/New OrleansLiterary Festival.  A literary explosion of over 80 events being held in 11 locations (3 of which are off The French Quarter “grid” as it were) with almost 50% of festival attendees coming in from out of town (read- have no idea where they are going). FUN! 

Honestly, if dealing with lost guests is the least of my worries... This will be the first time in 7 years that I can claim ignorance during a lit fest. No one is going to leave me alone with a register/cash box/store/phone/stack of paperwork/merchandise and assume I know what to do with it, or expect me to keep artists happy while not actually engaging them in personal conversation. No one is going to question the cut of my dress, or suggest that I’m not wearing enough make up. 

Which is to say, this is TWNOL Festival is going to be a cake walk. I’m trying to decide if I’m excited about being a nameless volunteer with no authority. Volunteering is always hard work but I’m used to something significantly more labor (of the mind, body and spirit) intensive. 

I honestly regret that I didn’t have time to say good bye to my old festival stomping grounds before shuffling off to NOLA… I think about mailing, but I don’t know how to prepare an apology for the unintentional offense. Oh well. 

I’m working Friday morning and picked up a Sunday morning shift… because the organizer asked nicely and offered me free tickets to an event that would serve free beer. I’m not super excited about many of the panels and workshops—Most of them are aimed at novelists, playwrights and T. Williams fanatics. I am none of those things. But I will be attending “Day of Music at the Palm Court Jazz Café — Drummer and Smoke: Musicians Battle for the Future of New Orleans in New Atlantis and HBO’s Treme.” I’m going to miss the NPR panel and Late Night Poetry Slam because I have work those nights. Figures. 

Next Stop! The New OrleansHealing Center  to pick up postcard flyers for The 1^st Annual Spiritual Music Festival 1st Annual Sacred Music Festival which I’ll be dropping off in cafes up and down Magazine Street this afternoon. Again, I’m going to miss Saturday night (the night I want to attend!) because of work. But if I don’t work on Sunday I’ll volunteer for the evening taking tickets and listening to some local soul-inspiring grooves. I apologized to the organizer for not being able to give him more time. He was incredibly friendly, and when he found out that I was new in town he said he’d keep his ear to the ground for leads on jobs.

Everyone in this town is friendly. It’s true! 

Then it was time to swing into the New Orleans Food Co-op to drop off my Hands-On-Owner application. I need to e-mail the outreach coordinator to introduce myself. But in all honesty I’m nervous about being around co-op people again. Not that I should categorize all co-op people as… well… kinda mean and back stabby. The wound is still deep I suppose. I’d love to get back to teaching a kids craft class. And I have an idea about starting a crochet circle when it starts cooling off with simple scarves going to Missions and Shelters. Once it comes closer to that time of year I’ll certainly pitch the idea to the outreach crew. 

I’m full of ideas. I just need a place to put them. Or as a friend says, “Naomi. You’re so good at this.” 

I was all smiles yesterday. 

Converting to Judaism

Bloggy silence was due to a bought of depression. Moving away from everything you know and love is bound to weigh you down a bit. I think too much. And my bedroom has blood red walls. For a while there my mind couldn’t find any peace. I’m doing my best to pull out of it. I think I might get a few tapestries to put on a few of these walls. Something light. 

That said, I did have an experience this evening that’s managed to help me pull myself out of the funk quite a bit.

I went to services at Touro Synagogue tonight. 

Two weeks ago I went to Jewish Journeyers, which is essentially a discussion group for people who are considering conversion to Judaism. 

I don’t like that term for it. Conversion. 

While I was sitting in the gorgeous temple, listening to songs in Hebrew about poetically swelling concepts, watching Rabbi Berk bless all of the children (who are being silly wiggle bunnies while everyone laughs), listening to constant mentioning of light and peace and acceptance, and crying just a bit because everything is just really wonderful and beautiful… 

I feel like (and don’t laugh, because when I told Jon he laughed) that maybe I was always meant to be Jewish. I just wasn’t BORN Jewish. Therefore the label of “convert” hurts my feelings a little. It makes me feel like I’m on the outside. I’m really nervous about some people always treating me like I’m… less or different somehow. Obviously that shouldn’t be a problem but it’s a matter of labeling. 

Our society dictates that things/people either are or are not. You are either included or excluded from a descriptor and that puts you in a group. I’m used to that. I am a woman. I am a feminist. Yo soy Chicana. I am a student. I am a poet. I am not the opposite of all of those things. They define me. 

Now I am faced with becoming something. I am going to be Jewish. But what if someone looks at me as, “She is a convert.” Instead? I’m really nervous about that. So nervous that a few friends that I’ve spoken to have noticed my sudden and uncharacteristic insecurity. This isn’t to say that I feel I am making the wrong choice because I have never wanted anything more for my life. 

During Jewish Journeyers Rabbi Berk asked me to introduce myself and tell everyone why I was interested in converting. I said something like, “Well… I was in love with someone who was Jewish. I’d been a little faithless for a while. But things with him were awesome and I think part of that is because of how he was raised. So I started talking about converting for him. But then he broke up with me. I was a little angry… and realized that it didn’t make me feel differently. I guess that’s when I figured out I wanted to convert for myself.” 

 

And Rabbi Berk smiled and said, “I like that. I was a little angry.” 

I’m not angry anymore. But I am very insecure about feeling wanted these days. Unfortunately that insecurity is being projected on something that is really important to me. I’m looking forward to learning more and hopefully that will build my confidence. 

I have enough confidence in my studies and faith to brush off comments like, “You can’t become Jewish because you have tattoos.” Honestly, if my body is my temple and I decide to decorate… well, I don’t think it’s really going to hurt my relationship with God. 

And, “You have to keep kosher.” Listen, I promise not to eat pork and popcorn shrimp every single day. But I am going to continue my cheeseburger when hungover consumption. Again, I think God, while disapproving, can understand that he made certain foods and certain foods that go together… too delish to resist. 

There was also the devastating, “You’ll meet a nice Jewish boy.” I met a nice Jewish boy. He was great! Also dishonest by omission and afraid of confrontation. I’m not doing this to meet nice Jewish boys, because they aren’t any different from any other nice guy on the planet. Everyone has fatal flaws. Boys in general can take a leap into a lake or fly a kite right now. All of them, Jewish or no, need to stay out of my face.

On love

I am in a New Orleans backyard. There is a giant cactus hanging out with me. You can take the girl outta the Southwest… I wonder if it’s a San Pedro. I’m still very sad that the San Pedro that John K. gave me died. I took care of it a good two years before it finally wilted. 

Last week I had a few moments of serendipitous, “I live in New Orleans now.” The feeling of elation was demonstrated by a small smile growing into a full-fledged beam. There was also lightness in chest, unwinding in shoulder tension and restful, through the night sleep. 

For those of you that know my necklace charm habit—I purchased a small silver fleur de lis. For those of you that don’t-- let me explain. Through most high school I wore a small silver ankh—perhaps because of my goth phase, or because Sean liked ankhs or because I’d read the Sandman religiously (which might fold back into the goth thing). Whatever the exact case was, it started a habit of mine.

Small silver sigils (which might fold back into the Sandman thing).

There has almost always been one. After the ankh was an enamel black heart with wings (which I still have, and until recently had been wearing again). Someone mentioned the heart resembled a Sufi symbol. I had no knowledge of that when I purchased the charm. Then a kanji symbol for strength. I ripped that off my neck after a particularly aggravating confrontation with someone. After that was my goddess symbol, which was unfortunately lost in the great Aztec Tan party of 2010 (if I was going to ever lose her at least I know I lost her in a sea of loving friends and support… and wine). 

I seem to turn to these things when times are especially rough. After my most recent break up I turned back to the heart with wings. I viewed it as a symbol of an 18 year old version of myself, who was deeply in love with her first love… a failing love. It was sort of like a survival symbol. No one ever thinks they’ll survive the failure of their first love. As adolescents, we build ourselves up…. No… we press ourselves into corners thinking that love is entirely singular and all consuming. We tell ourselves that love is stationary and extraordinary in that it only ever happens to those who are lucky. Ha. Lucky.

The very idea of having more than one love! First loves are the freshest and maybe the most tiring for our young hearts.  Luck shifts, dumping us (without any ounce of romantic ceremony) onto our asses where we stand…. Stood… a place we thought was the most stable of grounds. Through the salvage process we earn our jaded badges of courage. And nothing is truly bitter-sweet until so many years later. 

I’ve had loves since then. Upon reflection, they weren’t true loves. And they certainly were NOT good loves. They were half-hearted, destructive and abusive. One could plainly argue they were not loves at all, rather fits of passion, fascination and a pre-occupation with what love was supposed to BE.

You grow up a little. Then a lot. And after a time of trial and error you eventually do find good and true love again. You find it and treat it with caution and the greatest care because, ah ha! You know better this time and you’re not going to let it happen to you. No. Not again. You’re old and wise, damn it. 

Damn it. 

There isn’t any way around it—it takes two and no matter how hard you try, or how good you feel you’ve been, or how much you think the universe just fucking OWES you a little emotional shelter after the storms you’ve tempered… there is that second person, your love, who is an agent, an element that you cannot predict or read. 

But you’re older and wiser and you’ve learned a little grace. Not that an ounce of grace resembles anything in the wake of heartache. 

Love is simply the least dignified event in the human cycle. Death? Pfft. A logical expectation for all life forms. But love? Love deviates from every and all expectations. 

…..

In any case. It was time to put the heart aside, stop wearing the past around my neck and try giving my new home a symbol of commitment. 

I am here to stay, because I have fallen in love with this town. It won’t be dignified. I’m sure this town will eventually have me on my knees. There will be storms and the sound of shotguns and shattered glass. But there is going to be a lot of saxophone and eventually sex again. There is going to be the humiliation of 100% humidity, but also so many celebrations in the streets. The city will have to see me through many a bi-polar pendulum swing. And I’ll just have to trust that things aren’t as bad as CNN is making it out to be. I can trust the city that much.

Everything is fine. 

I’m really into Malbec wines right now.

Poet Geek

Being sick in this city sucks! 

Last week my immune system was trying to tell me to settle the fuck down and relax. But did I listen? NO! Because there is a fuck ton of shit that I want to see and do. And that’s when my immune system knocks my ass out. I’ve spent about two and a half days in bed. 

However, before I went down for a two day nap I did get to witness some local poetry scene action.

“Sorry we got to a late start, but there is no time or space in New Orleans.” There’s something called “New Orleans time” here. Things don’t start when they say they will. Most take this as a leisurely Southern attitude on time… it drives me totally nuts. I’m the type of person that likes to be 15 minutes early for everything. Showing up 15 minutes early for something to start an hour late? AGRGHGHAHGHHARHGHAGRHGGA! 

I heard Rodger Kamenetz  at The Gold Mine (quick aside about The Gold Mine—their prices SUCK! $5 for an Aibta is stupid.) 

When I started thinking about moving to Louisiana I looked up as many creative writing programs as I could. In the process I ended up falling head over heels with two poets. Lara Glenum and Mr. Kamenetz. I found out at a book reading earlier in the week that R. K. would be reading at a poetry reading.

So book reading and open mic poetry… in one week? Yeah, I moved to THAT town. The literary scene is overwhelming. I’m a little poet-geeked out at the many opportunities New Orleans has to offer. The poetry reading as The Gold Mine is a weekly shindig with featured artists starting the session off.  http://www.17poets.com/

 

Part of me doesn’t really know how to handle myself in poetic social settings. I mean, I feel like I’m not well socialized. “Hi. I’m Naomi. I’m a poet too! Be friends with me?” Weirdo! People ask me what kind of poetry I write… and I’m totally clueless as to how to reply. I feel like I should have more public confidence than this. I mean, I can recite 30 types of moaning orgasms on stage but I turn into a wall flower when someone asks me about my poetry? Fail so hard. 

R. K. does this fascinating thing with his head when he reads. He tilts it to the upper left. It reminds me of an owl. And his breath is really reserved. The poetry he read, as expected, struck me fairly deep. I’m looking forward to his new book of poetry. 

I geeked out on him a little and asked for a picture. 

Actually it went down like this.

“Would it be weird if I asked to take a picture with you?”

“No. That wouldn’t be weird.”

“Oh my god. Thank you so hard.”

“It this going to end up on your Facebook.”

“Probably. And my blog. I collect pictures with poets like kids collect Pokemon cards.” 

Then I gushed at him for a bit about how I fell in love with his poetry when I was looking at the program and LSU and that I was totally depressed he wasn’t teaching there anymore and would he please sign these books for me and I just moved here and I’m totally in love with how much happens in literary arts and oh wow I have to go catch the last bus back home. 

Really? I feel like I should have a chaperone. Or a functioning social filter.