I'm Still Here

I want to be writing here but it's proving harder than anticipated to carve out time and get writer-ly in my work place.

I want to be writing because writing helps me think. I want to write here because I like having an audience and I want my friends to know what's going on around me and in me.

It's going to be a little while before I have computer and Internet access in the house on Harmony Street so I'll keep trying to show up.

Watch for a picture of my new hairdo, coming as soon as Carlton empties his digital camera and sends me the shots he took last weekend. I'm on a mission: I want to look pretty again and as an early step in that direction I visited Beauty on de Bayou and gave Jowald free reign last Friday. I'm pleased, folks are talking at work and I'm getting more play on the street.

Stay tuned....

Pleasure in the Fight

Two or three people staged a grand argument in the street in front of my house last night. It was "funny" because it was almost 10 p.m. and I'd only just returned home and made a mad dash for the piano to get a taste of the Brahms Impromptu before turning in for the night.

Most of the time bird song or human whistling or singing rises up in the silence after the music. This was the first time angry yelling erupted in the wake.

After a few minutes, it was clear the woman at least was deriving some kind of good from the yelling (the other voice(s) were male); the tone of her voice grew rounder and mellower with each utterance. I couldn't see the speakers and I would be hard pressed to explain what I'm about to say but gradually the sound of the anger seemed tinged with pleasure. Near the end of the scene, the woman was actually laughing with such zesty satisfaction that I started smiling too.

The House on Harmony

I found a place to live. A little green house on Harmony Street. (I hadn't noticed the double meaning until I googled "green house" and most of the images were glass houses.)

In my private universe, this is an unquestionably beautiful thing -- having "green" and "harmony" associated with the place where I live and dream and make things. In my universe such omens portend unequivocal peace and joy.

But I know in "the real world" it's just silly to believe pretty coincidences mean anything.

And it is inside that knowing that doubt and fear and second-guessing arise. What should I be paying attention to instead of (or in addition to) the things that naturally catch my attention?

On the day the landlord and I met to look around the place, I noticed there was no refrigerator in the kitchen. "Uh oh. No refrigerator. That settles that--I can't rent a place that doesn't have a frig."

"Well, I don't usually provide a refrigerator for tenants but I have one in another unit you could use."

Problem solved in the little green house on Harmony street.

On the day I moved in, the landlord was in the kitchen--spray-painting the refrigerator. Was that one of those things that should have had meaning to me? How would an adept social anthropologist have interpreted the occurrence of a landlord with a spray can and a refrigerator? I saw it as more Crescent City quirkiness and thought "I love New Orleans!"

By the end of the day, there was no doubt about it: the refrigerator wasn't working. Except as a safe and nurturing space for fledgling newborn creatures. I left the landlord a voicemail.

A few hours later, my CD player, my piano and the lamps all went off at the same time. Even though the ceiling fans and the microwave still worked.

"Uh oh," I thought. "Is the real world colliding with my rose-colored outlook?" Should seeing the spray can have warned me the lights were going out?

When I returned from work the next day the landlord and a guy who looked like what we called "poor white trash" where I come from were sprawled across my kitchen floor working on the refrigerator. A rusty mini-frig was parked on two big cinder blocks against the opposite wall. Apparently something they called a "starter" was broken and the landlord would buy a new one the next day. "I feel kinda funny 'cause I don't usually provide refrigerators for my tenants," he added. "But I told you I would so I guess I have to."

"Uh huh," I said. I said nothing about the other problem, the power coming off and on.

The next day, I left work for a few hours to meet the gas&electric company at my apartment to switch the utilities into my name. The technician was a swarthy, uncommunicative little guy who barely responded to my questions about the intermittent electric power until he reached the other side of the house and opened the breaker box. "Here's why your power's going off and on," he practically shouted, holding a copper and glass thing under my nose.

Now he spoke in a clear audible voice, obviously warming to his work. I didn't understand much of what he said beyond "no connection" and "breaker" and "needs replacing." I left the landlord a voicemail.

He was audibly annoyed when he returned my call later that day. "What?!!" he yelled in the phone. "The electric was fine before you moved in. What's going on?!"

"I don't know, M____. I'm just telling you what the guy said."

"OK. OK. We'll take care of it but I've done all I can with the refrigerator." The line went abruptly silent between us.

"What are you saying?"

"I've done all I can do. I kept my word and put a refrigerator in. Not my fault if it doesn't work."

"Oh... " I said. "I'm really disappointed..."

"Well, I kept my word," he repeated.

"M____ ..." I was exasperated. "Don't talk crazy. You haven't kept your word. Installing a broken refrigerator is not 'keeping your word' and you know it."

"Don't you remember me saying that I don't provide refrigerators for my tenants?"

"Yes, I remember. And do you remember me saying I wouldn't rent a place that didn't have a refrigerator? Did you really think I'd be ok with a non-functioning refrigerator?"

"Yeah, yeah..... But do you remember me saying I don't provide refrigerators?....."

Never a good sign when the conversation turns circular on ya..... I let it go. The next day, I explored craigslist. I didn't want to do it, but I was willing to move again after less than a week in residence. And I found some groovy possibilities (including a house in the Marigny with two female artists looking for a third creative soul).

But by the time I got home last night, my landlord had come to Jesus and found a replacement refrigerator. He left a voicemail indicating he's okay with me paying my half of the cost of the refrigerator over time.

I don't intend to purchase 1/2 a refrigerator but I don't have to tell him that yet. I called and left him a "Thanks so much.... I'm happy" voice mail. A couple of days of harmony can't hurt.

Venga un Estornudo...

You know how you feel like sneezing...and then you don't? And sometimes the feeling lingers and you almost-sneeze a few times? Even before the sneeze, you know what's trying to approach. And there's no fear or resistance usually; in fact, you want it to come.

There's something I could call "the breath of Real" that's been playing with me for a few weeks. It moves sort of like a sneeze. In the same way that a deep inhalation can sometimes trigger the urge to sneeze, now and then, on the release of a slow, deep breath, a feeling or awareness or sense comes over me: no doubt about anything, no fear of anything, no worry about anything and clear sight. Like everything false or uncertain in me and the world drops away.

It's not huge or brilliant or fantastic like some of the insight or conversion experiences I've read about (and sometimes wished for). It's just a simple dropping away of all nonsense and distraction. An unequivocal appreciation of the "This" that feels as easy and graceful as opening my eyes.

The sensation is simultaneously imminent and realized.

And then it's gone.

Today begins another smoking cessation attempt (one has to keep trying...). Things always begin to get very "real" when I'm not smoking. I wish, I wish, I wish the Sneeze of Real to come...