When the bluebird sings, in the ….
I’m always amazed at how noisy New York is – literally I wake up to birds chirping every morning – and at the Muse I would lay there with the windows open (because I need the windows open) and hear the sounds of garbage trucks, tourists yelling in the street, humming of white noise and whir, and just think MAKE IT STOP – you live in a still place – a place like New Orleans where voices carry across the humid air so that when I am putting on my makeup, I can hear the intimate details of the couple next door talk in hushed tones – and then you find yourself in a loud world where all the noise creates cacophony but not real sound – and you think to yourself – if I could click my heels right now – I would be back there – on the bayou, listening to the birds, my neighbors, my world.