June 1, 2006
I’ve been getting serious about my foot lately—the foot on which I am forbidden to dance, says my Korean acupuncturist. He failed to negate the command, however, and what came out a few weeks ago was, “You have a choice. You have a choice!” So the intern, sensing that the crazy, illogical wheels in my head were wishfully creaking, quickly pointed out, “He means, You have no choice. You can’t dance.” Hope—once again dashed in TinselTown. When they lit a candle, switched on the New Age sea sounds, and closed the door, I could feel the qi (chi) moving. The mass of stagnation that I’ve been post-hurricane was finally flowing a little, with some encouragement from thin silvery pokers. It flowed right up to my eyes and a few salty drops fell down my cheeks. I couldn’t wipe them away; you’re not supposed to move with needles stuck in your meridiens.
The Chinese herbs are another matter entirely. They taste like dirt trampled by farm animals. I take them on an empty stomach, making big, dramatic farm animal noises with each swallow. But that’s not the extent of my semi-nausea. I’m almost getting used to the taste of the herbs. It’s the date that’s been getting to me lately—since December.
There’s been a daily low level stress in my bones—and everyone else who calls New Orleans or the Gulf Coast home knows it well—a mounting pressure rising imperceptibly with each day, as we move closer to the Day, to Hurricane Season. Some of us missed Christmas, Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest…but no one can escape this one. If I were at home, I’d probably attend the same voodoo ceremony I went to a few years ago—to stave off the birthday “presents.” And I’d probably go to church to do the same—to pray in a hallowed place that the misfires of the Army Corps of Engineers don’t fall victim to their incompetence. I’d probably take long walks in the heat—a veritable sauna—to sweat out the impurities, to pray that the sinking feeling and by now mid-level stress isn’t commensurate with the onslaught of climactic “gifts.” NO PRESENTS, I’d say. PLEASE, NO PRESENTS. JUST BRING YOURSELF.
Today is the birthday of Hurricane Season. It is a long, diva season, longer than any other woman’s I know. And today there’s a brass band playing to mark C. Ray’s mayoral triumph and, really, there’s no other choice but to move on and ahead, upward and onward, one unified people and city. And like a good Aries whose birthday season is passed, I say move on and unify, let bygones be bygones…there is no time. No time for quibbling. No time for pettiness or beefs. Light the candles, bang the drum, and someone—I mean this—shake the mayor’s hand for me. I’m far away for a while. But I’m celebrating. I’ve got my own candles. One for my foot and one that there isn’t a hurricane junta. And one for my mother. She would have been 62 today.
Wednesday, June 7th, 2006