A Week From Today

I will be on the west side of Memphis, crossing the river, touching Eastern Arkansas and curving towards Little Rock. A mere 113 minutes from my Mamaw's house and my Marmee's hugs.

I'm Wearing Too Much Black Eyeliner Today

I think my freckles are starting to connect...

Apple in the Square

I got down to the Quarter early today, about 2 hours before work. The weather is cool and windy now, perfect really. I walked around searching for Caroline's birthday present but found nothing I liked enough to purchase. After pacing Royal and Dauphine and Chartres I stopped at the A&P on some corner and bought a Diet Coke and a very shiny apple.

I followed the sound of horns to Jackson Square and sat in front of St.Louis Cathedral, eating my apple, watching the tourists. The horn section directly in front of me broke into a rough, gorgeous version of House of the Rising Sun and Mark Antony (that cannot be his real name) walked over and told me my hair was gorgeous in the light. I think he said something about "lovin" as well, but I focused on the sweet compliment and not the inappropriate insinuation.

He said something else. He said, "you by yo'self, that's powerful, means you not from 'round heah." I'm not sure what he meant by "powerful," maybe he doesn't see a lot of young women eating apples alone in the Square. But the "not from 'round heah" hurt. Is it so obvious? And why? Because I feel like I'm from "heah" more than St.Louis or Kansas City or Virginia. I feel like I'm from Arkansas and New Orleans, like the rest of those places were just cities where I happened to live.

And now I'm applying to jobs in cities that have never been home to me. It isn't to say that I was unhappy in those cities. But some places are just lonelier than others, and I have never been lonely in New Orleans. The pull of being closer to family and friends is what drags me away from here. And proximity to my parents and siblings is worth giving this place up. But that doesn't make the losing of it easier.

I would like to take this opportunity to say

DEMOCRATS KICK ASS!

Impatience

We are an impatient, easily aggravated species. The tiniest hiccup in our day can send us spiraling into despair or anger. A misunderstanding, a misplaced hello, an unaccepted invitation...all can make the world seem bent on our destruction, especially on the days we forget to bring enough change for the coke machine. Aggravation is so rarely logical.

I voted today. Just barely. I drove to the school where I normally vote as I imagined myself stopping for all of 5 minutes on my way to work. Of course, things never end up how I imagine them. I managed to arrive at the same time every criminally insane and/or slow person decided to vote and/or pick up their child. At one point the one-way street next to the school suffered a jam as people decided to park on both sides and then people decided "one way" just meant "pick whatever way you like" and tried to squeeze their hummers and let-me-suck-all-the-oxygen-out-of-your-personal-air-space SUV monstrosities into parking spaces that wouldn't fit a tricycle.

After excavating myself from the jam I wanted to give up. To hell with Karen Carter and Louisiana's only hope for sane representation. To hell with democracy. But then I noticed that half the cars that had been stuck in front of me, cars that had sat idle longer than me, were pulling over, parking on the burb, sidling up to the side of trailers. People got out with their driver's license in hand, scowls of impatience and annoyance on their faces (mirroring mine I bet), and skulked into that building.

I skulked in, too.

Nobody talks in those voting rooms, nobody even smiles. We all have places to go, people to love, cars to unpark, annoyances to get over. It struck me that everyone in that room had a viable reason for skipping the voting booth today. Traffic's too bad, Louisiana doesn't even matter (doomed red state), rush hour's coming on, dinner will get cold. But even impatience can take a back seat some days for bigger, hopefully better, things.

My Life Fits Into a Thumb-sized Gadget

Due to the complete and utter breakdown (implosion, blue-screen-of-death) of my computer (NEVER BUY DELL!), I have become unnaturally attached to my memory stick.

It contains all my notes for the semester, my soon-to-be-published article, my resume, several job letters, my references, two writing samples, research for my legal history paper, and a few poems...

And it is the size of my thumb.

Technology is insane.

Because I was Bored, that's Why...

I fell down my stairs last night. Nothing serious, but I caught most of my weight with my left wrist. It was really sore this morning, especially when I moved it. I have one of those ace bandage things because I'm accident-prone (and that's putting it nicely) so I figured if I wore it today it would feel better. This is background for the following pseudo-conversation:

Brilliant Man on Street: What happened to your arm, dahling?

Me: I fell down my stairs.

BMOS: (laughs) Why'd you do that?

Me: 'Dunno.

Now, this appears to be a pretty normal conversation. Nothing crazy. The insanity actually occured in the 10-15 seconds following my elaborate "dunno" as the Inner Moi That Always Thinks Of Witty Retorts 10-15 Seconds After They Are Needed came up with this lovely diatribe:

Inner Moi: Because I like hurting myself. Because I need to pay off this law school debt and a tort action seemed like a clever, and ironic, solution. Because my left wrist has a death wish. Because I'm tired of being pale and figured a nice bruise would liven things up a bit. Because it's easier than fallin up the stairs. Because I was hungry and I thought pain would distract me. Because I was privately protesting the war in Iraq. Because I was chasing the little white rabbit. Because it was faster than walking. Because I was bored. Because those stairs deserved a beating. Because my left wrist had been bad that day.

I know that there is no such thing as a "stupid question" but if a normal question is used by a stupid person...same difference.

Christopher Walken's Twin is in the Library Right Now and It's Freaking Me Out

Both

I found this written in a journal I never got attached to (they're like people, journals, some of them just don't fit). It isn't dated but I imagine it was written in Kansas City, when I was still trying to fathom how I'd ended up in Kansas after what felt like a small eternity in Morocco. I should have written more...

I couldn’t breathe some mornings. I woke up in various training locations (a shared room in Fes, a camp-like dormitory in Rabat, a family stay in Immouzer) feeling as though a pack of wild dogs sat on my chest, pressing my lungs with their weight and threatening various arteries with their jaws. Bee stings ran through my veins, tears made my nose run, and then I’d close my eyes for the split second I allowed, and decide to survive the day. The scariest moments are always in the beginning, when you don’t know where you’re headed, when the language is still gibberish, when the stares at your red hair are still new and disturbing. The beginning is full of companions, fellow Volunteers, and they cushion the daily assault of culture, toilets you “flush” with an expertly tossed bucket, stares, discomfort, and fever. They are your anchor and you, their halfdead dinghy.

I sometimes wonder if it happened. If I walked the souks of Marrakech and Essaouira and Youssoufia and Safi. If I bought those scarves from the crippled man in Fes or if I picked them up at the mall in town and wished my way to Morocco. If I fasted for Ramadan and broke fast with that soup and those honeyed cookies and those perfectly boiled eggs. I wonder if I loved it as much as my heart tells me I did. And can love really increase so much? Exponentially? Or is that only regret?

The feeling is different now, missing Morocco. When I wrote in that journal I could barely contain my loathing for my life, the way it had ended up. I hated Kansas City then, hated Megan for making me stay, hated my President for forcing me there after finding a home in that village. I was angry more than I was sad. The sadness came later and sank in only when I started law school and realized the freedom I sacrificed for this education. But I'm not so sad anymore, I don't think. My life feels like mine again, and not some accident or consequence of outside action I could not control. In all its mistakes and missteps and adventures and surprises, my life feels like something I built. So now missing Morocco feels like a part of my day, a part of my life. It no longer consumes every perspective, it's just there. Like a scar. Or a favorite sweatshirt. Both.

A Cool Front

I don't think there's anything lovelier than a cool front blowing through New Orleans after days of heat and pea soup-consistency humidity. Walking to work this morning I actually got slightly chilled, it being in the 70s and all. I almost bought hot coffee instead of my usual iced skim cafe latte.

Last night I went to a BBQ at Katherine's place. After an embarrassingly inept how-do-you-use-charcoal moment, we did manage to get a fire going and the bratwurst were perfectly charred. The wind picked up about the time we settled into our brats and beers, and it was the first time I felt a twinge of autumn in the air. It made me slightly sad, honestly. I love autumn, love the connection between cool weather and library days, but it's also likely the last autumn I'll spend in New Orleans and the last I'll have with these friends. It's exciting of course, to know that this time next year we'll all have directions and homes and careers or new studies elsewhere. But it's also terrifying how quickly it all flies away, how your life can alter so drastically in a matter of months.

I think it's odd how you can get very attached to certain people and yet know that it isn't forever. I've had several of these friends. Women and men that I was completely connected to, who saw me cry and throw up and yell and freak out, and then who just slowly disappeared into marriages or careers or homes. I disappeared, too, of course. Disappeared into Morocco or law school or Katrina. But then, there have always been those other friends, too. The ones that have stuck around for what seems like forever (and aren't they all tiny forevers? college? law school? Peace Corps? high school? snippets of time that keep on recurring...) and that I've always known would be around forever. It's just a comforting feeling, to have that moment of, "you're not going anywhere, really, you're staying with me."

I had that moment last night. Katherine and Stephanie were sitting across from me and I was talking to a girl I don't know and they were talking to each other. I just watched the two of them for a handful of seconds. Stephanie was tired and not in the warmest of moods, which always upsets me and throws me off a bit (and I'm no good at communicating that so that throws me off, too). Katherine was calmer and pretty, a wedding magazine will do that to a woman sometimes. They were laughing softly about something. I was cranky over my leg (long disgusting story...skin infection...blood...no need for more details) and feeling rather puny. But I saw them and everything ugly and impatient inside stopped exploding. Everything calmed. I just knew that it would all be okay. That they weren't going anywhere. California, yes. Texas, perhaps. Places other than places I will likely end up, definitely. But we aren't really leaving each other. Just spreading out, finding other things and people to love, but not loving each other any less. They are in the latter group, the group that does not disappear into the changes life brings. I had not known that before. I had hoped it, hoped they'd be in the small, select group of the Undisappearing, but it was just a hope until last night.

So now I know. And that's nice.

Blue

is my new second favorite color.

My color preferences (in order) are as follows:
Orange (all shades)
Deep Blue
Cornflower Blue
Gold
Bronze
Kelly Green
Avocado Green
Peach
Silver
Black
Charcoal Grey
Baby Blue
Turquoise
Seafoam Green
Forest Green
Lime Green
Chartreuse
Mustard Yellow
Light Yellow
Dark Yellow
Burgundy
Dark Brown
Russet
Sienna (Sienna is more red than Russet, more sunsetish)
Fire Engine Red
Wine
Rose
Bright Pink
Pale Pink
Brick
Cream
Off-white
Winter White
Beige
All shades of purple

All colors are necessary. I would not eradicate any dear shade. I just think purple is kinda lame. And lavendar? Don't even get me started...

I can either take pictures of myself or read for legal history class...hmmm

Sometimes I Get So Antsy

Sometimes I feel like my body slows me down. Not in any need-to-get-in-better-shape way (although I do need to do that), but in a way that's hard to describe. I feel like my head, my heart, all this pudding and playdough inside me, everything is whirling around with so many great intentions and grand plans...but the reality of skin and the responsibilities of it hold me back. Or perhaps it's just the impact of time. As a child I'm sure I dreamed ridiculously big and planned for greater things than can be remembered (I told my Dad once I wanted to be a "missionary ballerina"), and now everything is boxed in and quartered and divided and parceled out into manila envelopes decorated (decorated?) with law firm addresses.

It isn't to say that I doubt my ability to be happy as a lawyer. I know that I can be content, maybe more. I know that I smile easily and that work is largely what you make of it, what you decide it means to you. But I can't help feeling that my life, my body, my age, are nothing more than an elaborate cage to keep me from doing what the 5 year-old me dreamed of. I always thought growing up would provide me with the skills and information I needed to pursue those goofy and gorgeous kid fantasies. Instead, it seems that age and the quest for independence only create new burdens, thicker burdens, burdens that feel impossible to escape.

I read an article today about regret. I get it.

Om and All that Jazz

I'm reacquainting myself with yoga. I'm inherently skeptical of practices that are too self-centered and yoga is certainly that. My father believes it to be a form of self-worship and therefore un-Christian but I think that would have to be a conscious choice. I think it's one thing to listen to your body and figure out what feels good, what feels awful, and it's quite another thing to worship yourself in some way that displaces or replaces God. And for someone like myself who has always had issues of self-worth wrapped up in her body, I think yoga is a balancing activity, one that allows me to see how strong my body can be and how precious a gift it is (one that I should maintain with more care than I presently allot), not unlike the temple God would like it to be, right?

All that being said, yoga is weird. I love the class I go to which has a mix of rest poses and super-intense poses that make my arms and legs and abs feel like jell-o afterwards. But good jell-O. We end the class with a set of three "om"s, exactly the type of thing I would crack up over if I were not actually in a yoga studio. Stephanie can't hack that, she sits to the side and listens to the "oms" but doesn't join in. I respect that. I always feel more than slightly foolish doing it and I think I grin sometimes. It's supposed to be a meditative practice but in my head I'm thinking, "this is such a hippie, treehugger thing to do...Rob would die if he saw me right now." Rob (aka Roberta...being my little brother I get to refer to him with childish, teasing nicknames for the rest of eternity) is my little Republican brother who enjoys pointing out my obvious leftist craziness (Peace Corps, environmental law, yoga...) and would probably never let me live it down if he knew I actually sat cross-legged on a mat with my hands on my knees listening to Enya and saying "om" three times with a dozen or so strangers.

It's odd, the things we do to feel comfortable in our own skin.

I want to be Modigliani's Muse

"Redhead in an Evening Dress" is one of my favorite paintings of all time. She's so coy and beautiful but she also seems tired of wherever she is, like she's at a party hosted by an acquaintance she isn't fond of. I love it. I've always imagined her in some great hall, having danced for an hour or two in the ballroom just around the corner. She's been bored by every suitor, of which she has not had many. And some friend approaches her, maybe it's a man, maybe it's a woman. Just a comrade, a friend who feels her ennui. Someone with a glass of red wine in their hand and a smirk on their face. Someone who says, "the food here sucks, want to get a burger?"

Poem of the Day

Famous
by Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

Apparently there was an earthquake today

About 260 miles off the coast of Florida in the Gulf of Mexico there was an earthquake measuring 6.0 on the Richter scale. Residents from Louisana to Florida called in reports on the mild shake.

I'm trying to think if I felt something this morning that could have been an earthquake...

I dropped my contact in the sink. I'm totally blaming that on seismic disturbances.

So THAT's why I don't have a boyfriend!

I was reading an article about feng shui the other day and I came to the conclusion that all of my problems stem from a lack of decor cohesiveness. Yup. My table is definitely blocking my chi. And it's too heavy to move. Actually, it's not that heavy. But two of the legs are kinda screwy and the table only remains upright because it is precariously balanced against the wall. This is what happens when you find furniture on the street corner, it totally doesn't jive with your chakra. Or whatever.

My Little Pony...

Maybe I had too much coffee. But today while I was driving down Magazine street I saw two men in their mid- to late 30s walking two shetland ponies on the sidewalk. These two men were smoking cigarettes. And walking their ponies.

Ummmmm...

The Music that Floats In

I work downtown some evenings this semester and despite this emotional, haunting week one year post-Katrina, I am loving this city today. The building I'm in is old, as are all the buildings in the Quarter, and the walls aren't especially thick. I hear music all night. There's a restaurant across the street and the Man With The Sax plays from 6pm until long after I've turned out the lights and gone home.

I'm trying so hard to stop loving New Orleans. I need to leave, take the bar elsewhere, somewhere safer and closer to family and further from evacuations. I should work somewhere less foreign, more comfortable, less damaged, more promising. And yet I love this night music so much and I love the crawfish boils and the hot, hot spring and the constant green of this place.

I need to stop loving it here, or Here will tempt me to stay.

This is Justice?

I'm spending the summer working in criminal defense. Criminal law has never really interested me, I took the job because I was told it would be research-intensive and after an eon of filling out immigration forms I was desperate to use my brain.

I spend most of my days staring, shocked, at the docket master (database of what goes on in court on every case). I don't know how to adequately describe the trainwreck that is the New Orleans criminal system. Men and women are lost, LOST, within the system. There are people accounted for on jail lists that have never seen the inside of a courtroom. Many people who were arrested pre-Katrina on small charges are sitting in a jail cell right now, having never seen or spoken to a lawyer. The prisons are so overcrowded, and the courthouses so incapacitated, that inmates are lodged hours away, sometimes in other states, and "brought it" for their court dates. And really, "brought in," is a relative term. I have been in courtrooms with exasperated judges, watched them call inmates who are listed on the docket but who were never brought in from their facility. Their case is pushed back AGAIN, they sit in their cell a little longer, and many times the inmate doesn't even know he's been called to court half a dozen times. He's just sitting there with his fingers crossed, hoping the situation improves. Months, nearly a year, lost without their day in court. Yes. This really happens. In America. You should be angry.

Give the Telemarketer a Break, A Smiley Break

A friend of mine mentioned a common woe this morning: the telemarketer. Specifically, the ridiculous task of spelling things to a telemarketer (whose English probably isn't topnotch anyway). B-as-in-boy, E-as-in-Edward, etc., etc. And I got to thinking, those poor little telemarketers probably hear "E-as-in-Edward" at least thirty times a day. And as it is my duty to bring smiles to the downtrodden I have assembled the following list of lesser-used and ever-happy words for just this dilemma. So spell your heart out and give a telemarketer the giggles.

A as in Ahoy
B as in Bootylicious
C as in Cootie
D as in Diggity
E as in Effervescent (don't laugh, expand your vocab, people!)
F as in Funkadelic
G as in Goober
H as in Heebeejeebee
I as in Igloo
J as in Jazzercise
K as in Knight (pronounced in the Holy Grail fashion)
L as in Lollipop
M as in Mahhhhvelous
N as in Naughty
O as in OPP (yeah you know me)
P as in Porcupine
Q as in Quest
R as in Rachelerific
S as in Sassy
T as in Tumbleweed
U as in Unmentionables
V as in VaVaVaVoom
W as in Woooo-Doggy
X as in X-Men (Wolverine is hot)
Y as in Yam
Z as in Zebediah

See, these are smiley words. Not boring words like "Edward" or "Boy."

Boredom

Last night, after a lovely meal with Daniel (good company, freaky African food that tasted kinda like a liquified tortilla) I came home to experience that hallmark of summer living: soul-crushing boredom. I did some immigration work, flipped through the channels twice, instant messaged a couple folks, and called it quits when I found I had been staring at a fly's fight with my window shade for about 6 minutes.

What do you do when you're bored? I'm a horrible bored person. I get cranky. Very cranky. And I talk to inanimate objects. And I doodle. And I alphabetize things. Last night I alphabetized the plates in my cupboard by color. This seems especially OCD to me so I rearranged them this morning. I don't want too much evidence of my insanity lying about.

Whenever I'm bored I make up silly lyrics to the tune of Camp Town Races. Yup.

The Question that Haunts Me

MY NEW ORANGE BATHROOM aka HOLY CRAP I'M SHOWERING IN A GIANT ORANGE TIC-TAC

Alright, this picture was taken with my camera phone so don't laugh.

BUT ISN'T IT FABULOUS????

Yes, that is a fuzzy orange toilet seat cover. Mwahahahahaha.

I Have Nothing of Value to Report, but Master Blaster Kinda Perks Me Up

I think the decision to have a full time AND a part-time job was ill-advised, at best. Who advised me? Whoever advised me: you are no longer on my good side.

So.

Um.

What's up?

Okay, Daniel sent me this picture and because it is bizarre and ridiculous I will post it. Daniel is my new friend. He's crazynutsbonkers about this girl who wears cowboy hats. I am being supportive of this endeavor. And in showing my support I will post this picture and quietly mock Daniel's myspace attachment.

Things I Find Truly Offensive

1. These damn caterpillars. WHERE DO THEY COME FROM? One got caught INSIDE my skirt last night and I didn't notice until I was in my kitchen and felt red darts of fire against my thigh. Luckily I was alone as I just hopped around screaming for thirty seconds or so while trying to rip off my skirt. The little evildoer landed on my foot and I now have a four-pronged square of pain that looks kinda like a hickey, kinda like stigmata.

2. Styrofoam.

3. My complete inability to exit the front door without getting my skirt caught in it. It's not that tough, Rachel. Open the door wider, wear skirts that aren't so long. You're a grad student, surely you have the brain power to not fall down your steps every other day.

4. The freckle at the top of my forehead. It looks like someone took a sharpie and made a big black dot just below my hairline.

5. Condensation on the outside of plastic cups.

6. George W. Bush

7. The lack of Ethiopian food in the New Orleans area. I need to eat ethnic food with my fingers several times a year, people.

8. The amount of money in my bank account. Or, should I say, the complete lack of money in my bank account. I flipped a coin this morning to see whether I would go out to lunch with my roomie or buy groceries for the weekend. I flipped it twice because the "groceries" (tails) won. Why did I even flip the coin? Wasted a couple seconds of my life on that one.

9. Small, yippy dogs. Why can't everyone just have a REAL dog, complete with full-bodied bark and muddy paws? If I am attacked by one more manicured chihuahua at Audobon I will not be responsible for my actions.

10. My friends are leaving town. I'm gearing up for loneliness.

Sorry, compadres. I'm in a low mood today and decided to complain. As most of you know that this is not in my nature, I expect a plethora of emails sending virtual hugs and "snap out of it"s. Flowers would be cool, too. And chocolate. And if someone wants to volunteer to pay off my loans I'd really appreciate it.

Yes, I am Doing What You Think I am Doing

Yes, I am sitting in my car outside Madigans with my laptop checking my email. Yes, that is correct. There is a redheaded woman sketchily checking her bank balance from the comfort of her Volkswagon Golf in the Walgreens parking lot across from the Bar and Grill. Yes, that is correct. You can stop staring now. You can go back to your important walking-to-the-bar business.

Oh, yes, officer. Hello. Is there a problem? No, sir. I'm just checking my email. The internet is free this way. I don't want to buy a beer. Okay. Thank you, sir. You have a nice night, too.

Grrreat. Hello, drunk man. Are you actually knocking on my window? Is that what you're doing? And you're laughing at me. Fabulous.

Can a woman not check her email from the Walgreens parking lot with a clandestine internet connection in peace? Is there no sanctity in the world?

It's a Scary Time for all Law Students

I would like to introduce you to Javier and Diego, the homosexual gerbils currently cohabitating with my dear friend, Katherine. Katherine, bless her dear heart, is currently studying for her Legal Profession final exam. And by "studying" I really mean "placing her homosexual gerbils into the stuffed bunny basket I gave her for Easter and taking pictures." This is what happens during finals, people. We go CRAZY. I'm currently studying for Business Enterprises and by "studying" I really mean "playing tic-tac-toe with myself on the inside cover of my textbook."

I just didn't want there to be any misconceptions as to the "studying" going on at present. Homosexual gerbils, tic-tac-toe...these are the current pasttimes being pursued by the future generation of American lawyers.

It's Been Too Long

I suppose it is fitting that I revive the blog on my city's birthday of choice. There's an hour and half left of this odd, lovely, broken, and laborious Mardi Gras so I suppose I will make the most of my alone time and detail what I have found of the city I left behind:

There are moments when I can forget Katrina ever existed. I can sit in the same corner of the same bar, in the same booth at the same restaurant, and sometimes I can order what I once ordered, drink what I once drank. But those moments are no longer normal, no longer expected. Comments are made. Even the new places, the spots I've found since returning, are peppered with scars. Delachaise, my favorite wine place and my favorite spot for discussing Katherine's nuptials, is beautiful and perfect. And one of its windows is boarded up. Still. And a boarded window is nothing, it is a tiny thing. A boarded window would be nothing to my friends waiting for their fema trailer. But the small things touch me now. Six months later, my city and my places are still lovely only to a certain point. The ugliness is as much a part of the experience now as the beauty once was.

I have mentioned to a few people that I am seriously considering staying here, that I can't imagine leaving, that law school feels like the beginning of a life here, not a transitional period. Part of me is afraid of what that could mean, staying in a city that is, on a good day, merely destroyed. New Orleans on a bad day? On a bad day I think maybe the city has ceased to exist, that it drowned beneath the waters and we are desperately trying to revive a shell of flesh. But even the bad days have some sick, solid, magical quality. Even the days I am exhausted by my life here, I feel like the exhaustion is an impetus in itself, that the terror of living amidst destruction is some variety of life I was built to embrace. I don't know.

I will always love walking around the Quarter with a friend, stopping for a beer, laughing, getting my heel stuck between cobblestones. I will never tire of the momentous and momentary exhultation that accompagnies a perfectly tossed bead, the shine of greens and purples and blues and golds hanging from those oaks. I will never stop thinking this city has a capacity for beauty that outshines this heavy Katrina mud.