Moving On

New Orleans, the eternally entertaining city still captivates me. The witty Dorothy Parker play, the Waltz, reacquainted me with the art of ladylike witticisms, the kind that don’t utterly emasculate.

Yin and yang artfully displayed twenty-four hours a day, all over town. Completely normal looking Americans in blue jeans, tee shirts and white sneakers walk along with a woman wearing feathers and a guy in a cat in the hat hat.  

French quarter craziness rockets me into overload rather quickly. Memories maudlin and otherwise flood my senses with the infamous bitter-sweet. My best years with my dad were in this town.  Pink azaleas remind me of him.  

This morning I’m having coffee in the yard at my friend’s house, where I’ve been staying for just over a week. There’s four of us sitting around, reading the paper, commenting on stories. It feels good to have normal at home conversation again. It’s been a while.

In the middle of everything I think of my honey; I’m sad, but it’s more of that bitter sweet shit. Sad remains in vogue in my head, when we drive to Rouses where I pick up a pound of Crescent City Roast for coffee on Monday.

Rueda Casino or salsa dance class at the Ashe Center on Oretha Castle Haley was fun; I’m going again next Wednesday. I keep trying to fill myself up with fun and interesting, palliative measures; nothing gives me love of life like before. For all the good times, the ha-ha’s, just below the surface I want to cry, but I’m so tired of crying I hate the thought.

Twenty months he’s been gone. I talk to him every day. Missing him hurts, but not as much. I want to be better. I want to quit hurting. I just don’t know how.