I'm sorry I haven't written. There's a lot to report, so I'll begin with now:

The ferry terminal in Algier’s point is less than two blocks away and long old ships with names like Coronet and Marni Mae come and go all day depositing cargo and delivering goods to the thriving city that is New Orleans. There is also the classic Natchez boat that takes tourists for a ride at sunset to the sound of olde timey carnival versions of jazz and blues covers like “Mack the Knife.” The carny sound can be heard most days from the porch in this apartment and it sounds like a haunted music box for people over sixty. The ships that pass capture my attention, and remind me that I'm a visitor passing through also.

After a truly decadent breakfast in the Marigny involving shrimp, spinach, goat cheese and grits, I hit the cute occult store near the quarter and found secret potions in glass bottles that promised to lift hexes and clear obstacles out of the way of success. There were packs of spells and talismen galore with hand-written messages; the necessary poetics of high stakes in low places. The chick behind the counter was a witchy poo proto-type with long black hair and piercing green eyes: think Snow White meets Diamanda Galas with a Honda Shadow 750 bike.

She talked non-stop and dug into jars with her one inch long sparkly black fingernails. The nails scooped ingredients out of labeled jars and into to my blessed, dressed candle. She surveyed a bruise on her arm. She had dropped her bike and while picking it up, it landed on her arm. "It's gonna be a big one," she said. She's a Gemini who just learned photo shop so "kiss the little hand written potions good-bye."

A cute couple browsed books on spells and the owner took money from a guy in business suit for tiny bright parcels promising attraction and wild sex. A woman in a scarf asked, “Do you have a bottle of love potion number 9?” But this isn’t your typical tourist hangout. The owner was not amused. She shook her head and went back to digging things out of jars and pressing them into my candle. So I did the American thing.

I placed my psychic order:       

“I need to be alert and disciplined while writing and working these crazy late nights,” I said.  “Long term financial security, not just a quick fix survival thing.”

Since I’ve been in New Orleans in October, I’ve made nearly seven thousand clams dancing. I’ve made a hefty student loan payment, rented a car and paid rent in two apartments in two cities. I write in a café two blocks away and have been inspired by ruthless, toothless, exquisite folks like the permanently pouty girl in a sundress with a beautiful singing voice at Tout de Suite. She said just now, "Screw it. I'm so poor, I'm gonna spend all my money."

toute de suite coffee shop

   

      Donna the taxicab driver

  I’ve met characters here in New Orleans that are stapled to my heart.

 Last night I met the most lonesome person ever at Visions. He was around my age and just got off a plane from Germany where he teaches weapon disarmament to soldiers. He teaches them how to dismantle bombs. He could pass for an art department guy from Brooklyn or an overgrown hippie from Eugene. Tattoos. Beard. Plaid flannel shirt.

He’s lived in Kuwait, Iraq and Bucharest and most recently- Germany. He paid me well to talk to him and to listen to him. I know culture shock when I see it and this guy was rattled and displaced. He travels so much that making lasting personal connections is pointless. He was like a stripper in that way, where freedom and intimacy are tenuous acts that wrestle each other for years through timezones. It got me thinking about my theory that sex workers are the most lonesome people, only matched by the clients that pay us.

The words the witchy-poo biker said resonated. “People always want money, success, love and protection, butt hey have the wrong order. Always be concerned with safety first,” she said.

“Protection, financial security and then love will come,”she said, pressing the magic inside the candle with a long wooden stick now that her claws had done the dirty work. She walked the candle in the back room where spells happen and prayers are offered. That's a guess. I don’t know what happens back there. Bells rang. Frankincense or Cinnamon.

I don't know what happens next, but I'm ready..