Narrative, Anticipatory

...going to need two pair of shoes/when I get through walking to you/when I get back to New Orleans....


I feel apologetic for the lame title, then irritated I've set such high standards that I'm embarassed at the occasional mediocrity. One of my friends is often annoyed by his own lameness, so then I feel stupid because the offerings he designates 'lame' are usually the ones I find funniest, because he writes above my head most of the time and I miss the humor altogether. That's a damn lot of emotion-laden introspection to pile onto two words which, through no shortcoming of their own, failed to be brilliant.

Sigh.

The trees have finally exploded into color, like little girls with a brand-new dress-up box, and everywhere I drive, loveliness abounds. Usually, I get this kind of gorgeous a little earlier in the year, before the weather's gone truly cold, which it has, despite the random (e.g., Wednesday) topless day. Still, I resist putting on socks.

That's true, but deceptive: the full truth is, I can't find any of my socks. I think I remember having purchased some within the last decade. Where could they have gone to?

Don't answer that.

I enjoyed being mostly naked last time I saw the city. In June, Nearly Naked is probably the best strategy for New Orleans heat and humidity. This month, no matter where I go geographically, it is chronologically November. Now, I do expect November in New Orleans to be milder than November in Baltimore, but when I found November in Minneapolis to be milder than November in Baltimore a couple of years back, I question the validity of that expectation.

In short, I have no idea what to pack. And I leave Thursday.

I will look up the Glassharper while I am there, and maybe Se7in, but I will not visit Dan Mehn, Master Joyner, who was one of my favorite survival stories. He missed last summer's disaster in New Orleans by virtue of being here for the Ren Fest, but then managed to smash himself to bits against an oncoming dump truck- or something along those lines. He amazed his rehabilitators by eventually walking, and had a reportedly wonderful season at Faire this year. And then last week, collapsed from a heart attack and died. The Universe, after granting us an extra year to love him, reclaims him.

The purpose of this trip is to visit a city I love, but mostly my grandmother, who may or may not know me. Last time I was there, surreal dominated. I can't even begin to construct a set of expectations for this trip. Possibly that's for the best.

I may be getting used to this joy/pain cocktail of life. Pour me another, Harry, and make it strong.


(Walkin' To New Orleans; Fats Domino)