when my ear holes need happiness

Anytime I’m at a loss for what to listen to, the “Insecure” soundtracks bring me joy. I’ve been trying to get into the Coachella 2026 artists but issnotworking. At all. For me.

 

Sounds of New Orleans - pirates!!

There’s a national pirate gathering in New Orleans this weekend. I ran into a couple dressed in pirate finery early Thursday morning. Ahoy! I called cheerfully, and they looked confusedly back at me, eventually muttering, Ahoy. The pirates roaming the quarter yesterday were exponentially friendlier (and probably drunker), and as I was walking along Royal Street I overheard one interacting with a street band playing Radiohead’s “Creep.” A fine and funny way to pass a gloriously cool Friday evening.

the things that are happening here and everywhere

Gosh it's confusing times. 

The courage of my fellow citizens in the face of state violence is humbling and inspiring. At a recent protest I joined other marchers, chanting and holding signs, and felt a frisson of fear when the black SUVs began circling, smoked-out windows rolling down to reveal a camera filming. And we were on a relatively calm street in a small city. We're not being tear-gassed or pepper-sprayed or kettled, herded into vehicles and snatched away from our homes and friends. 

The way people are taking care of each other. Buying groceries. Watching school bus stops. Filming. At great risk to their own safety. This is the America I want to live in. Because the one I foolishly thought I lived in didn't ever really exist I don't think, except for the privileged few. 

* 

When I traveled more, in Asia and east Africa, the conversation with teachers and waiters and the taxi driver mad I'm going shopping on Sunday morning instead of to church--talk invariably turned to religion. I believe in people, I always said. It's still true.  

*

There is other news.

My poem "Dadless" was nominated for a Pushcart. Thank you thank you Metaworker, for believing in me.

 

And I served as a parade escort for the glorious nerd-loving chaos that is Chewbacchus. An unbelievably rainy afternoon gave way to a foggy evening, perfect for the contraptions and krewes to celebrate rebellion and carnival. 

there are no answers

It all continues and nothing changes.The man continues to hover on the block. Thursday he lay in the restaurant doorway screaming as patrons stepped over him. I called, my property manager called, finally an officer came out, phoned me, said "Oh someone's flagging me down about him," and when I went back down later, he was gone, cited for trespassing.

Friday night I returned home with my bike and the man was screaming, pacing rapidly up and down the sidewalk.

It was a game of dodge-em to get myself safely inside.

My property manager A has been helpful and empathetic and doing her best but ultimately is powerless.

*

Officer Lewis came out today about 8.20am. I’d exited my building to see the man sitting wrapped in a blanket on the porch of the Airbnb next door. I called 311 and the officer was pretty snotty when she first arrived. Couldn’t find the police report, said he wasn’t breaking any laws, the homeowner would have to complain. Meanwhile he sat and stared sullenly across the street at me standing outside the cop car.

I went inside to get my hard copy of the report and when I came back, he was gone.

She looked it up, said it was entered as trespassing not indecent exposure. Then she said, "Oh he’s gone?" (quelle surprise)

I’m annoyed, tired of explaining over and over what’s happened. Tired of feeling like I’m the one to blame. Meanwhile church goers are arriving, setting up coffee and pastries outside, the work crew nearby (Spanish speakers all) looking uneasy.

My neighbor walked up, coffee in hand. Now the officer addressed him. (Yay sexism)

She said the man's name is Shawn, he’s well known for vandalism, exposing himself, screaming and harassing. The coffee shop around the corner has dealt with him, a bar had its window broken out. He was on the next street over for awhile. His sister lives in the neighborhood, feeds and houses him sometimes, but he cusses her out and leaves. He’s been hospitalized.

So again there are no good solutions. S. doesn’t want help and is crafty enough to elude the cops and any long lasting treatment or penalties. The officer said he’s been arrested before but then they get complaints about the police harassing homeless people.

I'm trying to live my values, of compassion and not harming anyone, but what do I do when I feel so unsafe?

I'm trying to be brave, and patient.

But this man S. refuses help. He harasses, assaults, and craftily runs away.

I want there to be a record

I don't want to end up stabbed, assaulted, dead.  

assault and the pervasive silence

I experienced assault this week.
Physically I'm OK, psychologically not so much.
The assaulter, let's call him Willy, is an unhoused person who hangs around my apartment building.
Beyond the houselessness--he sleeps and lolls in nearby a restaurant doorway--Willy is a screamer. For months he's roamed the neighborhood, yelling about killing people, slitting throats, murdering all the white people. The restaurant doesn't do anything, so sometimes their well-heeled patrons literally step over him to get inside.
Other times he'll be smiley, wishing you a nice day. It's a shit-eating grin that I don't trust for one second.

A few days ago he pulled down his crusty old sweatpants and displayed his admittedly sad and pathetic dick. Made eye contact with me as if to be sure I got a good long look. Shocked, I hurried away to run my errand.

My next instinct was anger. Fuck that guy. I wanted to beat the shit out of him with my baseball bat. I texted a neighbor. Then called my apartment's emergency line. Call the police, they said.

I hesitated. Willy is a black man in America. I know what happens. And I also know I want to feel safe going in and out of my home. Eventually I called the non-emergency police number. He needs mental health treatment, I said, but they only sent a cop, a couple hours later.

Officer L took my report, said the neighborhood softies obviously had made it too comfortable for Willy. I don't disagree but he was pretty callous. By this time one of the apartment managers was on site so I talked with her too.

Three days later, not much has changed. I exited my building this morning to see him waddling up my street, looking around and then going into the port potty by a building under construction. I made the calls, police, apartment, but what will change?

The other interesting part of this is the reactions. Some acquaintances laughed it off. You should point and chuckle. You should kick him in the throat. You should...

Others are properly shocked or angry or both.

One called me to listen and talk. Like many of my women friends, she has also experienced assault. 
Many of us have gone through much worse than this. A sad reality.

One friend didn't respond at all. Like it never happened. Which feels kind of like the cops and my apartment managers. Waiting for it or me to go away, to be quiet, to stop complaining. I'm not sure how much energy I have for this fight.

this is courage

Not hyper macho body armored muscle queens laden with weapons.

But.

People. Americans of all sorts. Showing up all day for the mundane and the glorious. 

First, at a non-regulation polling site at 8.30am on a Saturday, to find like minded neighbors already in line. A grumpy blond woman in her jammies. A harried couple with their child, half-costumed for the No Kings march. Millenials en route to brunch. All of us trying to weigh in despite little information and limited ballots.

Then thousands gathering in oppressive Louisianan heat, humidity and a blistering sun, from elderly veterans to pre-gaming gays and parents with sweaty kids, holding handmade signs, some in costume, exercising the right to free speech and having a say.

And later, Pride, onlookers and dancers and performers damp from the passing thunderstorms, decked out in glitter and rainbows to celebrate our beloved gay friends and families. A visitor from Arizona excitedly scooping up beads to take home to her kids. A white-haired woman in a leotard, lip-syncing to George Michael's "Freedom", her krewe dancing in the street around her. Glitter gays diffidently texting from their float. It's chaos and joy and I love it.

 

* 

To those who criticize, I wonder about motivations. It's personal for me. I show up because I want to (have you BEEN to a protest or a parade?! the joy and solidarity and camaraderie are <<chef's kiss>>). I show up to be counted. To feel less alone. For those who can't because of work or mobility or exhaustion or fear. I'm not brave. Just determined.