New Orleans, my love…

Monday afternoon found a missed flight, and an extra 16 hours to get here, and absurds amount of scratch spent to simply have crappy food, crappy drink (coffee & water) and a book that has carried me the whole trip. I reccomend “A Dirty Job” by Christopher Moore to everyone, especially those who know San Francisco. A brilliand delight, wonderfully twisted…

I really shouldn’t fly on anyone else’s wings but my own, I’m thinkin’. My own get me higher than any others built of aluminum and steel have, just – not as far or fast.
I succumb, but I offer my lack of poor time planning as an unorganized protest. “HAH! to hells with your strict schedule! I’ll show you, you boot sniffing bastards, by arriving late and completely messing up my plans. I’ll show you by leting you have an extra seat on the flight I was supposed to be on, I’ll show you in the way I look around for an outlet to plug my compooper into only to find out that there is no such thing as free interweb in an airport. I’ll show you in my red-eyed weariness, my 26 hours awake.
Something tells me that I wasn’t too effective in my accidental protest, so on with a wee bit of the story…

…Don’t feel like being very storytelling. I began, and in half of the first line I realized that if I took the minute-by-minute approach it would take years to put it all down, my eyes are wide –  – so if you will be so kind, bear with me…

New Orleans.
She still holds my heart, still is a true love. I will sacrifice anything to help her, but all have to offer are my words. I try to make them right, but you can’t know without being here. The purest magick I have ever felt, as well as the most profound sorrow.  Remember wo you are. You are strength, here. Cry your heart out for the way you have been forsaken, but your tears are always combined with a smile that radiates warmth, beauty, love.

I breathe, I look at the full moon. I am welcomed into an exquisite flat on Decaur and Barracks streets, hug wonderful friends and meet others.
Our show is beautiful – though it was a strange night, and the turnout was minimal. There was no one around, even on Frenchmen Street.

Still, we all rocked. The place was ours, and we did what we wanted, which was glorious. We have a knack for that…

Hell, I’m tired – it’s been non-stop since I got here, and I really don’t feel like I can write – I want to, but just can’t.

More later. The Klowns have gone to San Diego, it is mine alone, this place. I have time.

I love New Orleans…

back to my book. Friday night, but I’m staying in. Perhaps I’m inhuman, but I still need rest…

 Rebirth Brass Band tomorrow. $20 for the rest of my time here. Free show. Hells yeah.


4 responses to “New Orleans, my love…

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