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.

N'Awlins or Bust!

So this is my last day in Little Rock. Almost exactly 4 months ago I evacuated from New Orleans and I've spent the last few months in a weird vortex of school, stress, depression, terror, and hope. I know this is a departure from my normal blogaliciousness but I wanted to say a few Thank Yous. In no particular order:

Mom and Dad: For everything.
Stephanie: For sticking it out, and for being my friend
Megan: For being you and letting me stress out
Juice: For taking my mind off things, letting me spend the night, loving me
Katherine: For emails I needed and being there
Pete: For giving me someone to look forward to hugging, you are missed
Morgan: For your hard work, you're doing great things, and I will help in every way I know how
David: For instant messaging don't-freak-out-everything-will-be-okay pep talks
Jeff: For being a new friend, not chalking me up as a wate of time
Richard: For making me laugh, for being okay with being weird
Courtney: For taking me to dinner, for calling me after the storm
Christina: For the purse, the Christmas card, and the phone calls...for letting me know I'm not alone
Everyone who sent clothes: For keeping me stylish and warm, I cried when I opened each box

To my fellow New Orleans survivors: I look forward to seeing you, hugging you, laughing with you, drinking coffee with you, complaining about reading with you, helping you, and rebuilding the city with you. God bless and see you soon!

Lovies,
Rachel, Rae, etc.

Howdy, Y'all...I'm Headin' Over Yonder

In honor of my flight to Dallas tomorrow I am requesting all people not flying to Dallas to partake of something Texan in my honor sometime before noonish. Eat some barbeque. Wear a ten-gallon hat. Ride a horse. Rope a steer. Swear in an unintelligible language that you promise is English. Find oil. And I shall be back amongst the normal folk in due course. If, however, no one has heard from me by Dec. 21, please place all blame for my disappearance on Stephanie.

Where I'd Rather Be

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? And miss it each night and day...

Velvet Anonymous

My name is Rachel and I have a problem. A problem with velvet. Full thread or crushed, I get my poison the only way I know how: wardrobe injections. I know. It's the worst thing you can do, really, to overload on one fabric. But recently I just ache for it. My whole body begs for just one square of material, just one simple heel, one little cuff, one wrinkle, one belt loop of the stuff...

Today I shot it twice. Twice. Within two hours. I bought brown velvet pants, palazzo-style because they swing more. But the fix didn't stick. I couldn't stop at just one hit. That's how I knew I was really in trouble this time. The last time I overloaded on a fabric was in 7th grade when I wore flannel everyday for a year. I thought I could just WALK AWAY. But the gold velvet shoes just took me in, gave me comfort, loved me the way only an addiction can.

Help me.

My Very Own Marriage Proposal

This little message is in honor of my dear friend, Kitty Kat. Miss Kat recently acquired a shiny bauble for her left hand ring finger and I wish her all the JOY in the world.

But, Miss Kat is not the only one acquiring proposals. That's right, ladies and gents, I received one of my own this past Thursday morning. I was sitting at Walmart doing homework while my four new tires were being mounted or spun or voodooed (whatever you do to new tires) when the main mechanic came in to tell me that I was missing two lugnuts on one tire and he could not mount a new one without said nuts. The problem was that Walmart, being uber-American and so hoighty-toighty, did not carry lowly German Volkswagon lugnuts. So I walked to one auto place and they were out and then I called a cab to take me to the VW dealership. My cabbie arrived in yellow splendor and as soon as I hopped in he said, "Damn! You the sweetest thang I seen a sure long time." Yes, sweetest thang. I smiled my sweet smile and asked him to take me to the dealership and along the way I mentioned something about New Orleans. He asked if I was married and upon hearing my answer he said, "you need to take me down there with ya." Fabulous. So after trapping myself two lugnuts at the dealership, the cabbie asked me when we would be getting married. This question was followed by the truly important one, "you know how to make that jammy-laya stuff? Cuz that stuff is damn good." I assumed he meant "jambalaya" and was about to tell him I did not know how to make it when he informed me that his first tasting of it was when he was in PRISON. Evidently at the state penitentiary in Arkansas they have special days of different varieties of ethnic food. Mexican, Chinese, etc. And his favorite day was Creole day. Awwwww.

I think it's meant to be.