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Last night at Swirl just in conversation I said three cuss words – $60. Oh well, I’m trying but the jar is getting rich off my inability to turn off the cussing spout. Meanwhile, a while back I wrote that I’m trying to change my life a thought at a time. Well, during Mardi Gras I didn’t meditate once, but yesterday I finally did and it opened up my day because I was able to see things that I don’t normally stop and notice. I saw a butterfly drift by the backyard on my way up to my office; Tin and I watched a pelican dive bomb for a fish in the bayou; and I looked over at the countertop where I had just put some white baby roses in my mom’s white vase from Spain and thought, ahhh.

So $20 at a time I’m trying to curb my cussing habit. One thought at a time I’m trying to open up my mind space. And noticing at least one beautiful image a day is helping to improve my general joy.

I went last night to watch the Sacred Harp at the Fairgrinds Coffee Shop, put on by the New Orleans Afrikan Film Festival and was impressed to see a packed house. Only the film itself was about an hour too long for me because I didn’t find anything sacred in scared harp singing other than from an historical point of view. Someone said there were no black people singing sacred harp and I thought well, there’s a reason for that, there is no rhythm to this music – it sounds more like a bunch of people who can’t sing shouting out songs of fire and brimstones.

I tried to make the comparison of my experience being Sephardim (Jews from the Iberian peninsula) versus Ashkenazi (all other Jews). I grew up listening to melodic chanting and readings that were tinged with the Ladino inflection, where as to listen to Hebrew in a non Sephardim synagogue is to listen to the gutteral bock bock bock that hits the ear like a rock.

Similarly, the documentary director said that scared harp singing had more melody, was pure melody versus gospel which was in his mind prettying up the music to make it more palatable. Because why? Because it is not palatable to my ears is why.

And why I believe there are about two dozen black people in the entire world singing sacred harp – perhaps as a generalization I might say two dozen tone death black people and why blacks took gospel to a level that is transcendent.

Well I’m glad I went to see it despite the delay due to technical problems and despite having gotten a babysitter hoping to catch my nanny’s art show as well – I ended up there with only a quick stop in to Swirl where I got to see Matt’s first day there – cutie pies!

I’m sitting here looking out the blue blue bayou and thinking of Japan. It’s nighttime there and people are dealing with stranded transportation systems, telephones and communication systems down. And dead loved ones. In one second your life is turned upside down.

How people endure tragedy – natural to human made is still a mystery to me – a testament to the human spirit. I still haven’t gotten my own Federal Flood/Katrina tattoo – nor my divorce tattoo(s) – nor my you name it. I’m partial to the abstract image, not necessarily a fleur de lys but something iconic. A friend created a candle, lit, as her tattoo – Tatjana has a wave around her arm (I joke it is the Tulane wave, but since it’s before the flood, it’s not about the flood and yet it has everything to do with her sea coast and the Flood) – since it’s words that crowd my head and weigh heavy on my tongue, I’m must say I’m partial to a tattoo I recently saw “I am not all right. But I’m upright.”

Yet, I’m still thinking my tattoo may be a red butterfly – my metamorphosis – but that suggests the transformation is in the past, not ongoing, which might require another tattoo down the road.

My thoughts are with you Japan, we know all about tragedy here, we know water here too … shallow to deep, blue to muddy, calm to turbulent – we know water here too.

I’m sort of surprised after listening to It’s New Orleans! podcast on gay life in New Orleans that there is no history written about this subject, but stay tuned because Frank Perez’s book In Exile will be out soon. I’m also surprised that it’s 2011 and being gay still has to be defined, has to be labelled, has to be out there – different and queer.

New Orleans lost another musician yesterday, go in peace.

The podcast I was interviewed for on It’s New Orleans! is live – have a listen:

It’s New Orleans!

Geaux Gay! – Four New Orleanians walk into a bar, how many are gay? In this case 3.5. All the variations of gay New Orleans emerge over cocktails and discover they have more in common than they thought.

I thought I was finished with cussing when last night I went to bed with a hot cup of ginger tea I had made by slicing some fresh coins of ginger into a cup of boiling water, and then I spilled the entire cup on the bed, on Loca’s bed, on my slippers and so I managed to say more cuss words in that one moment than I had in two days of my cussing moratorium – alas. I need to enlarge my vocabulary for accidents.

Meanwhile, my jar is getting rich. Add another $20 mam.

Yesterday morning, I spoke to a friend and without too many words we were both able to place our moods and thoughts.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked down from my office while Tin was still sleeping, it was about 5:30 and the bayou was so vividly blue through my window that I was struck by the beauty.

Yesterday evening, when Tatjana called from New York I put her on speaker phone to say good night to Tin, and Tin said in barely a whisper laku noc (good night, pronounced lah koo noch) to her, I told him “she can barely hear you could you speak up” and he roared into the phone, “LAKU NOC MAMA.”

Last night I crawled in bed with William Trevor’s short stories reading about the old drunk who was a war hero and the unmarried vacationing on the Mediterranean leading their second best lives, and was so happy to be going to sleep early as I have been exhausted over the Mardi Gras period.

Then Tin started singing from the crib, “Oh When The Saints – Go Marchin In – On When The Saints Go Marching In” then peals of laughter followed by conversations amongst his stuffed animals – “Zebra to Piano the monkey, Give a Moose a Muffin – HA HA HA HA – Otay.” “Evan the Alligator, “You see the SuperDome? Otay – HA HA HA HA.” Then another song, “Who Shot The LaLa I don’t know, Who Shot The LaLa I don’t know.”

Earlier in the evening I questioned the whole keyboard gifting and our indulgence of his music as he was playing the piano and wanted to play When the Saints Go Marching In so I put on Mahalia Jackson singing it and he scrunched up his nose, and said emphatically, “No, Trombone Shorty singing it.”

After a while of trying to reconcile the singing with the Trevor’s stories, I turned down the volume on his video and went to sleep.

While Wisconsin took one step backward, Illinois took one step forward in abolishing the death penalty.