Driving around the French Quarter in a horse and carriage, I feel so at home with the red leather seats and the rocking motion of the carriage.
I know damn well I must have lived in the Quarter in a past life–most likely as a Madame of my own gorgeous bordello. I love everything about it–the wild and intense history, the romantic architecture, the literary inspiration. I’ve been madly in love with the writings of Tennessee Williams since I was a young lass, and the house where he wrote “A Streetcar Named Desire” on St. Peter Street is like a temple to me. Nevermind the bookshop in Pirate’s Alley that was Faulkner’s house. The owner, Joe, says he occasionally smells cigar smoke when there are no cigars to be found–apparently Faulkner smoked cigars.
You KNOW there are ghosts everywhere down there.
My housekeeper Rose has a very different view of the Quarter. She cleans down there on Saturday, and told me she sees all sorts of nasty things going on down there, in addition to her car being robbed last week. I choose to ignore the seedier side of the Quarter and instead focus on my romanticized version of it. It’s a bit like the article I just read on the latest excavation of Stonehenge. They are saying now it was quite possibly a healing place or temple, because of the amount of sick and diseased skeletons they’ve dug up. I’m sure this is quite plausible, but I was always under the impression it was a portal to other worlds, other times, between the living and the dead. I told George this, and my little Virgo said that was preposterous. I can’t believe the man who loves Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter doesn’t believe in time travel, but I guess his analytical nature struggles with mind-blowing ideas. Of course Einstein was analytical AND he came up with the whole space-time continuum.
In any case, I just read a book I loved called Sepulchre. It had all the elements of a good gothic mystery–tarot cards, devils and ghosts, romance and music… I got very swept up.Then I read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. It is a jaw-dropping book. Amazing. One of my favorite books ever, I’d say. Deeply philosophical, beautiful, stunning writing, and a great story.
Then I read Are You There Vodka, It’s Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler. I’d never heard of her when I ordered the book. It had a funny title and had good reviews, so I went for it. There were some really funny moments, and I applaud her for being so brash and brazen and outspoken, but at the same time, the book was a bit harsh for me. Comedy that offends people isn’t funny to me.
But back to the French Quarter, a pretty blissful day is getting covered in powdered sugar eating beignets at Cafe Du Monde, although why I end up getting covered and the kids stay clean is beyond me, then taking a horse and carriage ride past the Napolean House, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Tavern, the Ursuline Convent, where vampires used to leave their victims on the steps… A trip back in time.
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The truth of my life is… without cookies I too am just a monster.
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Just keep going. No feeling is final…
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Grief and the Holidays
I’ve written before how death and divorce can make holidays especially piercing, seeing everyone with their loved ones when so many of mine are now gone.
This is the first Easter in 6 years that didn’t feel like I was being stabbed with 1,000 tiny pins all day long.
I wondered why the feelings changed. Was it time? People love to say, “time heals all wounds,” but I have not found that to be true for me. In my experience, some wounds never heal.I miss my beloveds all day every day. The pain remains, as big and all-consuming as ever, but the more it tries to pull me down, to destroy me, the more ferociously I create: writing, dancing, filming, creating…
I have learned to live with loss and grief, it is a part of who I am, and though I wish this wasn’t true, it is: grief is also an integral part of my children, and I know they feel the loss a little extra on holidays too.
