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As more people return to NO, the trash is starting to pile up all over again and the smell on N’s block is disgusting. Despite all that there have been other places – like going to Krakow – as well as much needed conversations -that have helped to lighten the load somewhat. Tomorrow N and I will go have dinner and discuss our lives – she’s bored in Ponchatoula and I’m crazy in midcity.

Over in Krakow, meeting new reporters, always a reminder my company draws the slightly offbeat to its bosom and suddenly you find yourself in an intimate conversation with someone you met only moments ago. J’s story touched me and also gave me pause – a reminder, like Katrina of the tenuousness of life – Alistair helped her feel great love but suddenly and sadly was swept away in one slip and fall in the shower, but then Dolan there to sideline her yet again. Or M’s tragic past that she is every day overcoming. And C’s Juliet, who has turned out to be the one he wants to have ‘babies’ with and make music with, or S’s need for the bitchy type – regardless of gender – to offset his complete and utter giving over of himself to love/infatuation/adoration/one night stands.

The flight and arrival was fraught with tiredness and disconnecting and ended up heading straight towards a movement into assessment and clarity. At least it seemed that way, it’s just so hard to tell with so many moving parts grinding against each other. S said I flip around but he misreads cues.

I am re-engaging with work and that is good. Have lots to do before end of year. We’re going on trip during MLK weekend – Jan 14th weekend. A wants me to take S so she can take T and I’m not sure what to do. S said if I take S then he’s going to Vegas – just be on red alert. Maybe I’ll just opt for a spa weekend and forgot all about the entire scenario.

The Can might open on the 15th and that would be great. I’m also joined fully at Salvation – a gym – not my spirit but my energy needs saving. Today BP almost killed me – so out of shape one week away has made me.

Still awaiting W’s guitar to come in. We spent a few hours together and he started out by saying, “Rachel, I want you to know that I want to go to New York with you but I cannot go without either my mom or my dad. My dad may come and then I will go.” I said oh really and said, “I would have thought by now you would have felt comfortable enough with me to spend the night.” He said, “Comfortable here in New Orleans but if we go outside New Orleans I need my dad to come with me.” I understand I told him. Then he said, “But I want to go to New York.” So I said, “Well Auntie Michelle lives in NY, maybe your mom might want to visit Michelle and then you could go with her there and see NY and it would satisfy your one parent with you need.” He just looked and screwed up his face and did not say anything.

We then scooterized through park with him on full tilt and me running full steam after him – almost didn’t need a workout afterwards. Then a stop at the playground and I took scooter and helmet and went to bench to watch. He was distracted by crying little girl and then lost sight of me and I could see him panicking as he looked for me and he came running to the bench and said I didn’t think you would sit here because I don’t ever sit here. And I said it was the only empty bench.

Then we were off to the pond where the butterflies were lovely and graceful and he said his friend kills butterflies and I reeled back in horror and said don’t you ever kill a butterfly – they are objects of beauty. We took our shoes off and put them in the cold water of the fountain. And he decided he needed to frolic and so he did. Almost with an abandon as if someone had let him loose and he was going to get the most out of it he could. I saw a penny on the ground and got out to pick it up and make a wish and he insisted he needed that penny. Then he saw all the pennies in the fountain and decided to claim a replacement for me. So we both made a wish – May New Orleans Rebuild Quickly – he whispered this wish to me and then we said it out loud. Then he allowed me three pennies and three private wishes.

I hope New Orleans rebuilds quickly but we are in the who knows what is going on stage and that is disconcerting. Our neighborhood is piled with even more trash as more people return and either clean out tenants or their own personal belongings all damaged by Katrina. The smell outside is frightening. S opened the door to put out the trash and I almost gagged back in the kitchen. But there’s good news – gas is coming on in the neighborhood. The Can is opening on the 15th. The Times Picayune was delivered to our smelly doorstep this morning. N’s Jasmine bloomed in back. The Mirlton Man came by yesterday calling out – I’ve got Alligator Pears, I’ve got Cabbage, I’ve got Bananas – things are vying for normalcy amongst the smelly curbs and cross painted houses.

We went to Pal’s tonight and K, the bartender, said contractors from out of state have been showing up alongside regulars – they think this is play town she said, asking for discounts on the drinks, healthier pours, inquiring about how she fared in the storm (a standard insert into conversations these days) – she told him to fuck off and that is why I will keep going to Pal’s.

Sadly K has chosen T and has broken it all off with L – L is trying to take the high road – told her to never call him again, basically lose his number, and has recalibrated his thinking on the matter and she is decidedly too young for him. But now he says he has nothing to dream about or occupy his mind against the every day of this haphazzard existence he has found himself in along with the rest of us.

No one wants to be alone. Everyone I know who is alone seems happy but they long or have the urge to merge. Then there are those who are merged and you just ask yourself what motivates them to stay. A long time couple down the street seem comfortable, content but when I asked N she said, are you joking?, they’re miserable. N tells me all the time how mean B is but she desires him still. And doesn’t that make it compelling? How do you know when it is time to leave S asked me, you have been there before? I said this happened then, this happened this time, you don’t know, it’s more knowing that you can’t stay then it is time to leave, because you know that staying might not make either one of you happy. How do you know when to leave? How did I know I needed to come back to NO, how did I know that even despite the fact that Katrina came in and shook up my dream come true (not to mention ruining people’s lives) and has turned this city into a post-war zone and it might take five years to get it back to equilibrium that I still wanted to live here – that’s knowing. You need that kind of knowing. Never run away from, always run to – isn’t that the motto you should live your life under?

Truth is no one can know – no one not here can know what compells you to be here or what it is like. L and I were walking through the park yesterday and a guy came along with a black dog and L said, “that’s not your dog?” and the guy said “No, I stayed you know and the National Guard forced me out and I feared they would shoot my dog.” I looked at him and he said, “You don’t know, you weren’t here.” Then he said, “I knew my dog would be okay, I left him set up, but he wound up in Maryland and had heart worm problems so he is being treated there and needs about six months recovery.” So L said, “Whose dog is that?” The guy said it was his neighbors. And I said, “Love the one you’re with huh?” and he said, “Done it before.”

I’m adrift, S says. Unmoored we all are. I told L this morning when I went to look at the nagahyde rat pack bar he pulled out of a trash pile and carried home – “hurt my back Rachel” – that sitting in his kitchen provided a degree of comfort – of stability – that I didn’t have and looked forward to – sitting in my kitchen – which kitchen would that be? We’re so unmoored. And yet K took the best offer – a house and marriage – what goes on?

They’re finally picking up the trash around here and the weather is ideal and so it must be time to leave, no? Poland will be a diversion for sure and in the meanwhile trash will be picked up, Lilli Belle will come home, and we’ll proceed with the next chapters. Last night reading Lemony Snicket to W, his grandmother (Judie) called and he was excited to speak with her and between talking to her like a little adult and alternating to a five-year-old thumb sucker – the changes were so vast and now they just become exponential.

I’m being sent off with longing and Krakow offers a respite from the gnawing.

Rocked Lilli Belle last night in her little burrito wrapping – N says the nurses say she is a quiet baby – her flush on her face is strawberry. And her fingers and toes are so long. The size of her feet looked like a toddler’s. Already more than she should be.

Time to attend to business.

Lilli Belle Marshall born this afternoon via C-section 7+ lbs and 21 inches long – strawberry blonde – Halloween baby – lil ghost lil ghost you’re the one I love the most- can you scare me up a little bit of love – Lilli Munster does the mash.

I said I’d walk off the planet if her hair was red – not after three vivid dreams of a red-headed baby girl – the cosmos continue to test my mettle. N said he’d get in the car and drive like a bat out of hell if her hair was red – where he didn’t say – but already she is something. Her hair is darkening, could be W’s color and maybe not red.

S has no idea – no clue – what the thought of a red headed baby being born today, especially on Halloween, could do to my mental health.

Fighting the urge to light up a cig – just for the pure hell of it.

I want the whole package.

I don’t even know where my story of Adele is that I started last summer while here. I worked on it in Bali. I’m still curious as to whether she dies or actually does just disappear. Tonight with Mom at Houston’s we got to hear about the saga of her Houma living situation. Richard “is not a drug addict but he is addicted” and the quadrapeligic who wants to live in her apartments with his brother not to mention Linda who can’t make it up the stairs.

Houston’s in Metairie was packed – jammed – only restaurant open on Sunday night in a 50 mile radius. They ran out of gumbo, ribs and who knows what else. So smoky in the bar it was like being in a, well, bar. But the food was tasty even if Nicole, our waitress, couldn’t go one foot without getting into a detailed conversation about how Katrina was nothing, just wait, the next five years are supposed to deliver far worse. Is she dispensing doom? Where does she get her info, I haven’t heard that weather report.

L is in bad shape. K is basically taking the passive aggressive approach to T and is predicting a blow up but rather than make a decision she is just waiting for it to run its course towards this blow up. Meanwhile L, all ready to dive right in, or so he thought, is now forced to sit back and re-contemplate what the next six months look like rather than think about a life with a young wife and possibly children. What can I say to him – I told him he needs to emerge himself in his work and look around him. Sounds like such glib advice doesn’t it? It’s so hard to tell someone something they would rather not hear – I’d rather be telling him she’ll be there for him whether he wants her or not. He’s in a vulnerable state right now. This morning in his kitchen he took notes about what we discussed – K, going to give you the space you need – then the ending gets dicey – but don’t wait too long – no not right –

Meanwhile tonight S told mom that he is going to learn how to cook. Something he has been talking about doing for the past year. I listened to him talking to mom and it was like I was on the outside looking in. Weird place to be.

The water in the bayou is rising again and it is starting to look normal water wise around here. Many trucks rolled through the neighborhood sorting, cherry picking, but at least moving trash – which of course does nothing but cause all the smells to erupt from what is getting released. But hopefully when we return from our travels next week – most of this will have been hauled away and maybe even one good rainfall will give at least a surface clean feel to the area. That and some gas would be welcomed with open arms.

I’ve been quite the firestarter of late – the wooden candlestick that glowed like a flambeau on the backporch, the corn dogs in the toaster oven. Tonight at Gal’s they have a fireplace lit in the backyard which is smoking up the whole porch and causing me to flinch every time I catch whiff of that fire smell. Right now between Houston’s, L’s house the other night, and all the various fires, smoke is starting to really bug me. I’d like some fresh air.

Mom asked tonight how the progress is going on the house – progress? – we’re stalled. S been too busy to make calls to the consultants. B is busy trying to get the Lakeview homes demolished before the mold ruins everything. Progress on our house? None. I keep trying to hold any desire to be in that house in abeyance but every once in a while walking by I get a sense of what the house might look like and I just want to be in it, with my kitchen done and my bathroom done and a tub to take long hot baths in. But that sounds so petty when you think of all the people who lost everything they had and don’t have the wherewithal to rebuild.

“Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,/I felt a door opening in me and I entered/the clarity of early morning.” __ Czeslaw Milosz

“You want the endlessness to end,” Alison says, “you want to go home, but there is no home. You despise the tender attachments of the liver and the body, but you also crave them; you bite other people in an attempt to find them, and when that doesn’t work, you bite yourself.” __ Mary Gaitskill

You open one door and close another, and can’t find your way back again – you put one foot in front of the other and assume the maze becomes more transparent or at least you realize which way failed and trust the path you choose keeps going infinitely onward.

“I tell you to open your eyes.”

The same nutballs that inhabited Pal’s have returned – G with his psycho self, the butch lesbo contingency, neighbor of N’s and neighbor of ours, and the tatoo’d bartenders. Next door the party is just getting started, pink wig and a few witches, and lots of Christmas lights plus a lighted snowman. Tomorrow night we’re headed to August with the M’s and at precisely the time of our res, the Faubourg group will be on the bridge toasting with tiki torches and wine to the return of the neighborhood. And yet N and B couldn’t wait to get out of here, leaving behind the debris that litters their yard, and gutters half hanging from the roof – no desire to nest again in their home – the porch still in disarray.

Third day of walking the dogs through City Park as L refuses to return to Cabrini fearing substances left from Katrina. Little by little we keep seeing familiar faces returning. L’s situation with K remains a puzzle – her phone cut off he has been bereft of her attention and therefore pining away for her – S continues to tell me that men only want what they can’t have – is that true? Or is L an enigma? Or one of those men that do need the hunt? She assures me that playing hard to get is the way of the land but from someone who is a jump in with 200% I disagree wtih these shenanigans – I don’t believe absence makes the heart grow fonder – petty nonsense. Too much is never enough.

L said he was fine until he got the email from K that said – honey I love you and want you – which then made him hesitate. Good grief – jump in with both feet would ya? Or maybe I could just kick him and tip him over there. Today at the gym while I was listening to American Idiot on the elipitical machine I glanced over at L jawing away with some guy by the weights – he then walked over and said I’m not going to push myself too hard today – I thought of the tire that threw out his back – “Rachel, d’ya know how heavy a tire is?”

So back to Pal’s – six weeks and in one night they were able to accumulate enough smoke to make it seem like there was no interruption at all. The rum and cokes were absent the syrup part of the equation – just soda from the gun or something nast – not worth trying to make it up with bourbon. Tomorrow night at August we’ll have a proper Manhattan.

Oh my – the band is starting right now at Gal’s – sounds kind of good – maybe we’ll hang on the porch and enjoy from our side of the fence. Better cocktails.

L came to check emails before going out with the manatee tonight and here are his jokes:

Guy walks into bar and sees a monkey crawling across the top of the bar, the bartender takes a glass and hits the monkey, the monkey falls to the ground and gives the bartender a blow job. Bartender says, you want to try and the guy says, yeah, but don’t hit me as hard.

Okay I won’t even tell you the gay rommate joke because it’s too dreadful.

The band at Gal’s is playing a rock song in back – “I never will tell you about the time in the hall when she kissed me – I started drinking whiskey.”

Let’s go back to fantasies – bike shops and buses and motorcycles – how about sanatoriums and medical gowns – checking out – or even just walking off the planet for a few minutes with your eyes open – these are things that keep you up at night wondering what the hell you are doing and what keeps you from screaming at the top of your lungs at every given moment of the day 0r at certain moments of the day. Fridays sometimes are haunted by ghosts even when it is not close to Halloween.

Tomorrow late the time changes – time changes – time passes – time crawls – patience – if there were world enough and time – why does that band sound like it is in the bathroom? Time expands, time contracts, time drifts, time shrinks – suddenly it is 3:30 – time to go – band now singing “Can you feel the heat, can you feel the passion, well, drunk on whiskey tonight” – whiskey seems to be the theme – now it seems the entire crowd knows the words and is singing. They said they played Jazz Fest – but I wonder where?

New tarp on La La – W said “sell the LaLa, are you crazy?” – he told me that I should be prepared because when I put the pool in he is going to invite a lot of people, some he doesn’t even know, to come swim – cub. Think the black tarp had more going for it than the blue which mimics every bad roof in the city.

Shouldn’t it bug me that a nonwriter can write in a certain way that is compelling? It’s like what goes on there? Besting me at my game.

Now singer is yelling to feel the heat and feel the passion – do I need someone to proselytize feeling the heat and passion? How can three days change a neighborhood so much – Oscar back to get his stuff, Alan back two days, Nicole back and watering roommate’s plants, Robin and Susan resuming life as usual across the street (W already making his presence known there with gifts of notes) – the taxi guy who leaves notes returned. Susan back and having her Gal party.

Where is that Muse?

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866

868. Song

SHE ‘s somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind’s soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star.

Today spent the time hauling logs and twigs out from the backyard with USAA and FEMA reps coming by to inspect any potential damage. I loved being able to at least feel like I was closer to the house that is not a house and to the progress of getting it ready for potentially or maybe one day living there. In the meantime, days leading up to it were tumultous and tenuous and I’m not sure where things are headed with S and I as we are having issues – yeah – that we cannot seem to reconcile and goodness knows that we have such external issues that trying to relate to the internal issues is mindboggling.

I’ve had two playdates without actually showing up at Cabrini’s playground but rather just walks through the park where trees are felled and there is an overall feeling of desertion around this area. We hardwired an electric water heater to have military showers and overall everything is rather akin to camping out or the like. But even with all the nuisances there is a general good feeling about being back in NO and not in Arlington.

S contradicts himself in saying that he wants to be here but then in the other breath says he is here because of me and if I am not me than why is he here? I can’t tell why anyone is where they are or who they say they are because there is too much static right now to try to sift through what is real and what is not. Most is surreal.

Buy the bike shop – yes – indeed – that sounds like a sound plan. But what does it all mean? I’m looking for 100% immersion not just this and that and not sure what it all could yield in the long run. Looking for an easy life – not a good life? – sometimes a good life could be about an easy life because in the long run it all comes down to day to day and if that is not yielding the good life than an easy life might. My job is way too stressful. The artistic temperament hates clients and readers because they want to control the output.

Dedication to O – who has done all the heavy lifting this year as I am not really here – I’m so scattered amongst the various degress of external factions that threaten to control my every move – it’s tough – real tough. And she has prevailed through it all – I owe her.

S says he has dreamt for years about a place to be and create and that he has let other things get in his way of having this – don’t I know this feeling – it’s like you want to be what you thought you would be, the ideal, but sometimes it takes chaos to breed the creative – that is what has always fed my stream. It’s hard to think of that perfect place where you just walk in and things fly off the page and come together so cogently – it just doesn’t happen – I remember thinking that and having that at some point where I came to the room where I could write and nothing was happening and then there was the room where the fake vampires skulked around outside and something triggered a scent and a rememberance like Proust and the writing flowed. You can’t make it happen but you need to be there when it is happening. The habit of art.

If you count up the days I was longing to be back in New Orleans = 5385 – and then you figure I returned for 120 days to then be exiled for 56 days and you try to divide the days that I did not long to be here – which was the 120 but within the 120 there were days I questioned whether my desire to return wasn’t fool hearty – and you try to multiply by the days that matter into those days that were spent longing – how many days were filled with joy?