dream about magnolias

Preface:
Blogspot does not wish for me to share certain photography with you children today, so forgive all of these hyperlinks. I'm hoping the mid-week lazies won't prevent your trigger finger from giving out a few extra clicks or five.



I've got too much to say today, I'm not sure how to say it, and I don't think I have enough time to finish this on me lunchbreak. However, this girl likes to do her best when she's in the mood to do at all. I'm skipping my one and only cigarette of the work day to finish this, so you all better be appreciative by loving me the best you can.






















Moving forward, HBO and Spike Lee produced a documentary on New Orleans to be aired in full on August 29th at 7p to the general public. I do not have HBO, but I would like to see it and record it, so let's make this happen, people. Called "When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts," some call it "wrenching" while others call it "unfinished," though it clocks in as four-hours-long. For those of you who have cable, watching that could provide a perspective on that situation that you either haven't seen, didn't realize was (still) going on, or forgot about for the past few months.


August 29th will be a busy day. There's a movement of sorts going on that I'm participating in, as well. For those of you who might not have kept track, 8/29/06 will be the one-year marker for the Katrina tragedy. In revere of the cities and of the lives lost, a nationwide ritual meal to commemorate this anniversary will be taking places on tables across the country. If you'd like to join our meal, feel free to contact me, as you'll more than likely be more than welcome at our table. It'll be my first attempt at Creole cuisine, but I've got a feeling it'll be pretty tasty. My special ingredients this time will be lots of love and some extra garlic cloves.

In other snooze, in the wake of Moving Day 2006, the streets had their short-lived, once-a-year sparkle to them for the last moments at 4 o'clock this morning. This marks my sixth Hippie Christmas, as they call it (actually I think only the hippies call it that), and, whereas in the past I've appreciated the free stuff available outside nearly every house downtown, I'm happy to see it's been collected and is out of my face. On Sunday morning as I hauled various items out of my summer sublet, some mine, some belonging to former tenants I had never met vacationing in Europe for the summer, I sat on my cat-fur-laden recliner/loveseat for the last time shortly after I had dragged it out to the curb. The weather was beautiful, and my former neighborhood grabbed a great breeze of of Lake Monona. I looked up the street. I looked down the street. I saw scenes like this and it reminded me of scenes like this.

Trash (not really trash so much as things people don't want to move) and furniture (see previously enclosed paren.) in the streets of Madison used to amaze me, excite me. However, after seeing the trash(some 3+ months old) and furniture (moldy, toxic) all over New Orleans a few months ago(much of it's still there), the sights no longer compelled the garbage scavenger within me. Instead, it left a foul taste in my mouth. While others went digging for hidden, dirty treasures last night, I took a moment with my house, alone there for the first time but for a half-hour, to put together my bed and move my belongings in from the garage. I don't feel like I missed out.

On a different note entirely, my new fridge proudly displays something quite surreal in my little part of the world. Over the past week, some of the diabetes nurse educators flew off to Los Angeles for a conference put on by the ADA. One specific work friendly promised to bring me back some kind of present. She arrived back to the office yesterday and came right into my (newly redesigned) office.

"Kenny, do you watch American Idol?" she asked.

"Absolutely not. Why?"

I lied. I'd been following it closely this past season, but always refused to openly admit this. I thought because we'd get together and watch it while having beer, that consuming alcohol while following with the flock of sheep somehow negated the crime.

"Oh, well, I'm not sure what use you'll have for this, but some finalist from this past season who's type 1 and a rep for Novo Nordisk was there signing autographs. I grabbed one of his headshots and had one made out for you." she replied.

That's right, people. I'm now the proud owner of a cheaply produced 8" by 10" photograph of Kevin Covais, or as others know him, Chicken Little. It says:

Dear Kendra,
BEST WISHES!!!
Love,
Kevin Covais

Love?!?! Cool. I kind of like you, too, Kevin Covais.
***


Epilogue:

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans
And miss it each night and day
I know I'm not wrong, the feeling's getting stronger
The longer I stay away

Miss the moss-covered vines, tall sugar pines
Where mockingbirds used to sing
I'd love to see that old lazy Mississippi
Hurrying into Spring

The moonlight on the bayou
A Creole tune that fills the air
I dream about magnolias in bloom
And I'm wishin I were there

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans
When that's where you left your heart
And there's one thing more, I miss the one I care for
More than I miss New Orleans

-Louie Armstrong, 1947