good golly it was a literary weekend in the dirty South

Good golly it was a literary weekend in the dirty South and I feel so lucky.

I ushered a few packed sessions at the New Orleans book festival, dealt with complaints and helped carve out space for ADA attendees. Several writers from The Atlantic were on the agenda and so interest was understandably high.

After a quick break to inhale a sandwich I got some me time and heard Alexander Smalls, Nina Compton and Nini Nguyen discussing food and culture and life; to Rachel Khong speak beautifully about how writing is the most intimate relationship between her and the individual reader; to Jarvis Deberry and others recounting the first horrifying and deeply personal hours and days of reporting on Hurricane Katrina; I listened to TaraWestover muse about how being true to yourself sometimes means parting with family, and her struggles to dig deeper in her second as-yet-unpublished book; and Charles M. Blow, W. Kamau Bell and SarahLewis in conversation with Mitch Landrieu, a funny yet deeply emotional discussion of the new Jim Crow and the work still ahead. Words and ideas still matter. Let’s get to work. 

• https://www.alexandersmalls.com/ 
• https://www.neworleans.com/restaurants/chefs/nina-compton/
• https://www.chefnininguyen.com/ 
• https://www.jarvisdeberry.com/
• https://www.rachelkhong.com/
• https://www.facebook.com/CharlesMBlow/ 
• https://sarahelizabethlewis.com/
• https://tarawestover.com/

 

is it me is it you?

As a kid I remember my mom and grandma talking about an older woman, a second cousin who'd done something scandalous. She's in her 60's, Gram said. And Mom said Oh I thought she was at least 70.

And I marveled, How do they know if someone is forty or sixty or eighty? I wasn't even ten yet and any one past eighteen seemed unimaginably ancient, the years not even worth counting.

I found doodling calming and once sketched my grandmother in profile, as realistically as I could. She was so upset with the drawing, with the proportions and my tactless attempt at realism. My nose is not that big, she insisted. But it was how I saw her, a small person sitting on the floor with a sketchbook and pencils. It was how she looked to my naive eyes. Distinctive. Glamorous, with her champagne blonde perm, capri pants and sleeveless tops.

I learned to hide my drawings after that. 

I learned honesty is upsetting and will get you in trouble.

Now, I'm on the other end of that spectrum. Where I once wondered how older folks become so cantankerous and inward-focused, I now realize it's a lifelong act of resistance to stay nimble and open, to guide the mind out of comfortable ruts and into the broad, shifting path ahead.

well hello March

If January felt like years, like getting sucker-punched daily, February went by in a flash, like a hit-and-run.
I'm writing as best I can.
The horrors are deep and sickening.
Canadians boo USians. (how!?)
We are not who we were 1.5 months ago, not who we thought we were or imagined we could be.
At a parade the other night we watched yet another suburban krewe sashay by to tired '50's tunes. "The good old days," someone commented.
And a friend turned, with a studied look. Good for whom?
*
Family has been familying. I got an unexpectedly sweet thank you from a niece; and then a strange greeting card and even stranger email from other fam. We are all losing it, quietly, desperately, and with a mightily-summoned measure of dignity.

the cavalcade of stupidities

In this cavalcade of bad news I keep trying to take quiet moments, to check in with myself.
Am I over-consuming? Getting worked up about things I can't control?
Where can I take direct steps to help, mitigate, assist?
And how can I take care of myself and those I care about?

If it feels like a lot of tough questions, welcome to 2025.

*

Memes help. Dumb videos. I stop and pet dogs anytime I can.

This dachshund.

 

 Courage.