Torn between saying it sucks (doesn't really. Probably hubby's been gone long enough that I have too much quiet now) and that it is pleasant.
I figured out how to get off the internet long enough to put pen to paper. I had to put a table outside in the shade. Whatever it takes. BAck in the day, when I lived in New Orleans, I'd go to my favorite bohemian coffee house called True Brew or to Brocato's Italian Ice Cream shop (where they made cappachino to die for) and write for hours. Or sometimes to a Steak and Eggs diner.
Haven't found places like that around here yet...if they are bohemian enough, the parking sucks (back in my NO days, I walked or bussed everywhere. Now I drive a landrover (bought it used as a midlife crisis dream vehicle, instead of the little Neon I was planning on buying. Cost about the same., but the neon wasn't as old.). I don't parallel park.
So there I was today, plugged into my mpeg player listening to bands like 9 inch nails and 3 days grace and Eric Clapton and the Police and thought how all this reflects my personal strangeness. I'll blame my encroaching birthday.
So here I am, 2 weeks before my 52d birthday, doing the usual pre-birthday weirdnesses (I used to explain this astrologicially - I have a huge stellum in Leo which means, I have a lot of solar returns right before my birthday which should mean I feel stressed anyway, for what it's worth. Don't muck with astrology much any more), feeling mildly out of sorts because I'm alone, and a long way from family, and definitely can't go back to the New Orleans I used to live in since it just isn't what it was when I left 15 years ago.
But I have become a pretty prolific poet. And I'm not nearly as manic depressive, OCD or ADHD as most of my family, and I can afford multiple computers, digital cameras and broadband internet and my house is paid for so life is actually not bad. And I live in a nice town.
But I am nostalgic for the bad-boy deep south I grew up in, morning sunlight when I would stand on the levee by Jackson Square looking at the cathedral, or the smell of Cafe Du Monde (or the even more nostalgic smell of Jackson Brewery while you walk down Toulouse street. That one went the way of all flesh back in the 70s), the look of the city in March when all the azaleas were in bloom, the smell of Bourbon Stree on Mardi Gras, filled with the smell of stale beer from the trash on the ground, and crazy drunk ladies showing their tits from balconeys....And the light. There is beautiful light in New Orleans.
But I don't want to deal with the crime or the humidity. I just want to talk about the nostalgia of it. The reality is why I live in Boise and not New Orleans or Houston.
Funny, how with my historian's insight, I don't think of classical Rome as horridly ancient, but being in my 50s sometimes the weight of years lived feels heavy.