You know, I’ve been thinking (no jokes, please). I’ve been thinking two things. The two things are these:
Sometimes, the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that one day I’ll have it all under control. I fantasize that eventually the renovations to the house will be finished, the garden will be dug and planted, all my work-related projects will either be complete or running themselves, Running With Scissors will take a long break between plays, and the boyfriend and I will go away on vacation. It’s Sisyphean, but I guess it’s just conceivable enough that my brain doesn’t stop to laugh itself silly.
New Orleans isn’t itself in winter. On my way to work this morning, I passed a girl in an old white pickup truck. She was the uber-Ninth Ward chick: a mess of dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, light eyes, wearing something with spaghetti straps. Probably in combat boots. Her windows were down and I could see the perspiration on her forehead and her two Catahoulas leaning out of the back, trying reach around the cab and lick her face. She’d obviously taken the dogs for a run down by the tracks and was headed home. Just looking at her I could tell what she sounded like, knew what she smelled like, knew what kind of cigarettes she smoked: she’s a fixture, like the praline ladies used to be, or the shrimpers are today, parked on the side of the road, selling fresh seafood by the pound. Or the vegetable man. It’s the sweat and the dog slobber and the rolled-down windows and everything about her that typify the heat and the humidity and the city. To me, seeing her is equivalent to seeing the crocus.
sturtle [dot] com 