Sleepless in NOLA

Are you a tosser and a turner? A nighttime mover and a shaker? Are you a deeply dozing sound sleeper? Do you jolt up at every little noise or dream?

I've always been a sound sleeper. Within moments of lying down and closing my eyes I turn myself off to the conscious world and surrender to deep, deep sleep. My dad says I could fall asleep in a phone booth. I've never tried it but I'm sure he's right.

Lately my mind reels as I lay me down to sleep. Will I lose 5 pounds before Shanelle's wedding? I should start running. How much are running shoes nowadays? Am I making enough money? I should go back to school. I can't wait to own my own bookstore! Are e-books taking over? I need to write more often. Will I ever be a grandmother? Should I have not gotten those back x-rays last year? What is John Travolta doing right now? Does God exist?

An hour or two later I finally doze off as visions of shoes and John Travolta dance through my head. (What are you doing in my head, John Travolta!) An hour or so later I am woken up by a nightmare about alligators the size of insects. Or insects that look like alligators, what have you. Or maybe I'm awaken by my partner drunkenly banging his way into the apartment. Or perhaps some jolly guests bellowing "When the Saints Go Marching In" at the hotel next door. I sandwich my head between my pillow and count sheep for around for another thirty minutes while desperately trying NOT to think about alligators, insects or John Travolta. I make it back to sleep just to be awaken one hour later by another crazy dream about giant squids or tree people. Three hours later, a woman's screams of exaggerated ecstasy from the hotel pull me from sleep yet again. Moments or hours later I startle out of sleep again to a clatter next to the bed. The closet door is rattling and I'm sure it's tree person or an alligator. Come to find out, it's just a paperback of For Whom the Bell Tolls that fell off the bed. At least it's Robert Jordan who keeps me up this time instead of John Travolta. But I do wish that damn bell would stop tolling so I can get some shut eye.

Kaffir, Unbeliever

I force myself out of bed at the early hour of eleven, arm myself with a beach towel and head to the French Market for some live jazz with Jane Harvey Brown. Ms. Brown is white. Her band is brown. She wears raven-colored feathers in her hair. I buy a pair of binoculars from a vendor who sleeps behind mirrored glasses. He complains he hasn't sold a thing all weekend.

I find that my wallet holds receipts that read "Crunch Eggs", "S and P set" and "Xhil Tessie" an Illinois license, 5 postcard stamps and a hefty array of cards. Alas, no cash. So, I chase to the ATM across the quarter. During my 24-block round trip I gaze at the local art work and make the acquaintance of Kaffir who specializes in ink prints of jazz musicians on pastel watercolor backgrounds. I remember reading somewhere in some cultures it is a very blunt and forward thing to do to ask someone's name before you get to know them. I blush beneath my heart-shaped glasses and duck away.

I cannot pass a bookshop. Enter, say hello to the puppy in the pram wearing a yamaka (not so strange), browse the short story shelf, chat about Garrison Keillor, Dave Eggers, leave empty handed (pretty strange).

En route to the stand with the binoculars I walk by a shop in the quarter that sells, well, a lot of leather goods, and overhear and old man say to his wife "Look at that mask with the penis on the forehead". Shake away an unwanted visual and tread on.

Break out the beach towel and kick of my shoes. Chow on crawfish cornbread and wiggle my toes to the beats of Ole Man River Band performing Elvis covers. Reluctantly leave my shady spot and head home to convert from shorts, tee shirt and flip flops to pencil skirt, collared shirt and high heels.

My highlight at work is serving cognac and checking in two Cajun guests who hate their room. I fail at the Sunday crossword puzzle. A box of Cabernet awaits me at home.

Red Dictionary

Today I accessorized with a red dictionary.
Forget my strappy sandals, braided belt and shiny necklace.
Check out my fat ass BOOK!

The thick, scratched tome is nine years my senior;
A bargain for a dollar at the corner yard sale.
An indefinable amount of reference
with a history of ownership unknown. Who else has loved thee?
I paid in quarters and nickles;
How nicely it goes with my little black dress.

-

I sat on wall
watching a father and son
tossing a Nerf ball.

The father asked "may I ask
what you are doing
with a Dictionary?"
I didn't know he was watching me too.

Smiling studiously, I replied " I am a very bookish lady! "
Wondered " how are you sure I hold a dictionary? "
and not a hard-cover copy of War and Peace.
How much stranger would that be at a music festival.