Life in no particular order:
Finally, partially moved into the new House. Everyone who visit's first comment is, "You've got to be shitting me." I never expected to live in a house like this until I earned $100k. The front porch is the kind from which one can look down on mere mortals and judge them or perhaps rule an estate like a feudal lord.
The landlord is too good to us. He left furniture, books, glassware, and a significant liquor collection. Such wealth unsettles me.
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The deluge hit New Orleans. It hasn't stopped raining since yesterday morning. My sloth is now justified.
This all reminds me of A. She would probably be running around in this storm and dragging me along with. The streets are rivers and the air is pleasantly cool for the first time since I arrived.
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Last night at a party, one commented about my compulsive scribbling. "What are you writing in there? Are there things about me in there? That's creepy. I'm going to call the police on you." I don't think I've ever met anyone so openly hostile towards me personally. It's disconcerting to be loathed.
Reminded me of Berlin. Out drinking with my history teacher. He looked at my notebook and told me to stop. "Why?" I wanted to know. "Sam," he said, "I just gave you a lesson about the Stasi. These things make a German nervous."
And another friend on another rainy day who told me about his family. "Never, ever write this down," he told me. Never did.
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Crashing on a friend and colleague's hardwood floor. My job gives me a reputation. When another one in the room tried to interrupt me, Friend-Colleague shouted, "Shut up! The money-man is talking."
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On Wednesday I asked the Baptists for $350k. My life is dictated by much larger numbers now.
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Last night I decided that dance clubs do not suit me. Life is a series of things to be endured. A fantastically loud band at Tipitina's insisted that they loved New Orleans. A shouted reply right into your ear was a fairly intimate gesture requiring coordination and effort. Tried to navigate the crowd and for my efforts got a Wild Turkey-soaked hand.
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My exercise aspirations are shot. Biked 20 minutes through New Orleans and was not winded. This city is so flat it feels like everywhere is down hill.
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I'm half-convinced that my work-superiors do not sleep.
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This morning I woke up outrageously hung over. There were still conversations unfinished in my head. A ride home with C, muttering "Thank you," and her laughing, "You've said that three times already." "And I'll probably say it three more."
Sitting around a table alternating between conversations about Steinbeck and bad habits. A fantastically uncomfortable couch on the smoking porch and an audible assault of people shouting, "I love you!" No one there wasn't AmeriCorps or former AmeriCorps. This town is sick with us. And the Friend-Colleague saying, "I can't remember your name... fuck... I'm drunk... fucking... Don't you understand my fucking point? I.. fuck." I still want to know what he was trying to say.
In the kitchen, a Portlander asked me what I thought of New Orleans. "Haven't decided yet," I said. He nodded. "I've been here three years and I'm the same. That's what this place does to outsiders."
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My life feels uncomfortable and strange. Like wet cotton. Or Joan Didion's The White Album.
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Today shall be a lazy day. I will sit here, listen to the Band, watch movies, and then maybe check out the Decadence. But I could probably sleep forever.
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