Hearting so hard tonight!

It takes a lot to wake up at four in the morning. Then go to work at five, make coffee for everyone else on Magazine Street, take their orders for five hours, sipping your own free coffee.... IF you get a chance.

And honestly, you've been smelling, brewing, touching, pulling coffee for so long... that the IDEA of DRINKING coffee is more of an expected obligation than a need. Like responding to the late night text of an ex that you had every intention of never speaking to again... but you know, for a fact, that they are the best at blanking your blank. So you cave in and text back, telling them to come over. Because, like a double tall Americano (with a splash of cream because-- who you kiddin'... espresso be too HARD for your American ass)... they are a sure thing.

Five hours. Of, “Would you like an extra shot of espresso this morning? Anything for breakfast? A blueberry muffin or yogurt parfait? Do you need a receipt today?”going through the motions required of you to be praised as the most excellent minimum wage caffeine monkey that ever ground beans.

You take a one hour break.

Then head to a job that you LOVE. L to the O to the V to the E. LOVE. Do that for 8 hours.

Come home and consider your very neglected loves... writing and reading.

Fall asleep, praying that absence only makes the heart grow fonder.

I went to school because I wanted to be a teacher. A poet. An educator. An activist. I wanted to be all of the things that my body vibrates from the core.

Because I didn't want to be a flair wearing waitress, a back of house butchie- prep cook, line cook, baker, a tech support slave (who looses their job to outsourcing! FUCK ALL that shit ain't fucking funny. Sitcom or no.), a house cleaner, co-op cashier than can't be recognized for passion or dedication.

Not that being every ONE of those things didn't teach me a very valuable lesson. They did.

Gimmicks draw money. BOH is the unloved heart of the service industry. Tech support goes to the lowest bidder... which sorta says a lot about the DELL lap top burning your lap right now. House cleaning might be the most honest and honorable gig you can get without having to pay taxes on your wages. Co-ops CARE... about the bottom line.

What is it that I love to do right now? Dress windows with wacky fashion, talk to people about the awesome fashion line, To The Nines, that donates money towards purchasing school uniforms for girls in Africa and supports locally crafted, made and employed endeavors.

Here's to Bootsy's Funrock'n. 

(pictured above-- my first window display.)

The full time job that I hadn't expected. But thank G-d that I have.

Also.... to M. R. And the lot of you who supported me through Stage 1 of ULTIMATE STAR WARS FANDOM. Que la Fuerza te acompane... amigas.

Because the love founded among girls in middle school still runs strong all around.

Saying Gratefuls

Today I had a full shift at my new job as bartender Cafe Soule. Before that I lent a hand as a retail bunny at Fun Rock'n/Pop City (Cher is the manager). This helping involves me playing head dress up and compiling a list of things I want to buy once I have money to spare. Eventually I am going to be the best dressed (and most ridiculous) high school English teacher. 

So it has been a work heavy day today. But I did get my first $20 dollar tip for opening beer and mashing mint with whiskey.... so that was pretty awesome.

Speaking of work. I've been doing a lot of it. Two jobs and any odd job I can find.

Like being a booth girl for my new friend Scott Saltzman  at The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Originally I was going to treat myself to tickets on Sunday and Thursday. But I didn't have enough money saved up. So it was a bit of a blessing that a few weeks ago Scott asked me to sit with him and his family during oneg shabbat. Through the conversation he concluded that I had enough retail/photography/art experience (none) to help him with his booth.

I mean. I wasn't going to argue. Technically I have done it before. I once was a booth girl for electrodes and probes. True story. 

 

In any case, the gig consisted of me sitting in a booth, talking to people about some great photography, learning from visitors about great traditions in New Orleans music and taking lots of great yoga breaks.

At the end of the day I was able to take a break to watch the intro to Esperanza Spalding. They'd done something horrid to the sound and her upright bass wasn't coming through. So... I did not get to witness the full force of her awesome sexy. But I saw enough. 

On the way back to “work” I caught a mini parade. 

 It was never my true intention to make my ex-boyfriend ultra mega jealous of my awesome location.... but... you know... accidental Mission Accomplished. I assure you that I make it up to him by being a good friend, a reasonable ex-girlfriend and giving him an open offering of sofa surfing. 

But the end of the day I was totally wiped out. I had a new coat of Aztec Tan sinking into my skin, I was a bit blissed out on my locale and ready to head home and crash without thinking about how deeply awesome things really are.

Thankfully I have a new little friend, T, who invited me to join her in saying her nightly “gratefuls.” We were grateful for a lot of things that I could share but I won't.

But I will share this. I am so very grateful that I'm only a few syllables away from reciting Shema without stumbling.

Attempting to break the radio silence

I made a promise to myself a while back that I would not write when I was depressed. The line between therapeutic catharsis and self-destructive observation is far too easily erased when you're really deep down in it. I'm certainly too old for messy public displays of depression. Certainly. Also, I never want to be one of “those” poets/writers. You can take that as you would like.

That said-- I had a bad few weeks. The first job I had wasn't working out and I had to quit. The second job that I have isn't giving me the hours I need. I did find another job which is when things were starting to look up.

Knock on wood.

I think Nola knew she was on the verge of hurting my feelings beyond repair. In an attempt to make it up to me some great entertainment was provided this weekend. Starting with Touro Synagogues 21^st Annual Jazz Fest Shabbat. Two bands. One choir. And John Boutté.

Attending services usually creates a feeling of emotional vulnerability me. So not only is the choir and congregation wrapping me up in the emotional blanket of Friday night song, but Mr. B is belting out covers of Leonard Cohen's “Hallelujah” and Mayfield's “Please Send Me Someone To Love.” Oh man, and “You've Got to be Carefully Taught.” And the song, “All about Everything”....

I cried and cried and cried. Catharsis. Thy name is song.

I mean, I totally love being Jewish. Jazz Fest Shabbat is icing on cake at this point.

I did win tickets for a latin jazz show from WWOZ on Saturday night... but ended up not going. It was a time management issue. And I live in a city where free Jazz is sorta... a staple. Not really a sin to pass up on it. I would have had a great time if I'd gone. 

But I did I had to take a nap because I had to be bright eyed and bushy tailed at 2:30am (seriously) for a Beats Antique show at House of Blues. 

And I can't say much about the show. It's one of those situations where... you kinda had to be there.

Thankfully I recorded the finale to sort of give y'all a taste of what went down.

The sound isn't great. But to be fair, a digital camera has a hard time picking up sound from two drum sets, a drum machine, other electronic beep-bop-boop making devices and a giant sexy saxophone.

The sound in House of Blues was great. Fault my camera.

In other news.

Giant sexy saxophones get me... you know... totally hot. (The artist played clarinet too...)

The Healing Power of Bagel

For the past two hours I've been trying to write about what is happening in my life. I can't seem to articulate anything in a way that I find satisfactory.

I will summarize the past week.

Blargh. Job. Blargh. Money. Blargh. Emotionally drained. Blargh. Feel like I'm not even close to reaching my goals. Mega Blargh.

But then. Today I took myself out on a bagel/book date at my favorite deli down the street.

I feel a little better now.

There is no way around it.

My blog is going to end up being, primarily, a place for me to store and share my thoughts on converting to Judaism. 

Of course it will still contain deposits of other adventures. For instance, today I sun burned the bottom of my feet while I was sunbathing. I didn’t even know that the bottom of your feet could get sunburned. Hence, lack of tanning oil/SPF 4. In other news, I’m working on a nice Aztec Tan everywhere else. Already looking a good ten pounds lighter. 

But when I’m not sunbathing, working my butt off and reading The Source… I’m at Touro Synagogue for Friday night services, Saturday services, monthly book club, weekly Torah Study, Tea and Talmud, Jewish Journeyers and LGBTQ community support panels, or at the JCC watching film screening about Lea Goldberg, or at home reading and researching. 

Somewhere in there I’m trying to work in yoga, pilates, meditation, and keeping up with my favorite TV shows. 

Choosing to be Jewish is complicated and dashes more exhausting than what I often feel I have the stamina for. But it’s what I want, where I need to be, and exactly what I’ll have for the rest of my life.

Of course, this big of a commitment doesn’t come without a lot of complications, conflict and a crappiness of all sorts of flavors. 

Like the classic, “Once you study the Torah long enough you’ll discover that Jesus is the son of God. He is God. And our Savior.” 

Wow, OK. Well, that’s certainly one way to be SO NOT SUPPORTIVE IN THE LEAST. 

I have to learn how to deal with this overwhelming fact. From here on out my belief in God won’t be good enough for a vast (and sometimes whackily whack) population on this planet. Thankfully I’m an educated person. Thankfully my mother and grandmother wisely decided that I would attend church and Bible Study so when I did make a choice it would be a smart and heart-felt one. So you can rest assuredly that I haven’t made this choice without considering what else there is that has been offered to me.

I respectfully decline. 

Thankfully I am capable as reading between the interpretations and manipulations of literature, society and culture. Thankfully the path that I’ve chosen believes in the spiritual and social evolution of humanity. I can do that for the rest of my life. Happily allow my spirituality to reside in a place that will not apply intellectual and emotional restrictions to my life. 

So, converting… yeah. There’s going to be a lot of angst. But more action because I have a lot to learn, so much to share, and a long way to go. 

Here’s a gem of angst for you. Speaking from a literary point of view—so much of what is written in the New Testament is political propaganda and multiple author revision and a manipulation of language/translation. 

But to be fair a lot of what happens in Genesis parallels creation myths from early pagan civilizations.

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!