I’m here. I made it. I write this one from the French Quarter. It feels un-fucking-believable to be back. I got in yesterday, and after checking in, I embarked upon a nice overview stroll of the Quarter, and I even enjoyed a carriage ride, which was nice, reminiscing and refreshing my memory.

I do not have one bit of negative. My last time or two trying to attend the French Quarter Festival were rough. Such a dark period. I couldn’t stay. I ended up grabbing a flight and heading home the next day. I can’t even tell you what was so dark about that time, except to say I was a lost soul.

Honestly, I was no more lost than I am now, but I was without a vision of the future; I was without a plan of there being a future; and, worse yet, I was without any desire of there even being a future. I just fucking didn’t care anymore at that time. It all reminds me of my cross-country rides.

The concept was simple. Take a motorcycle ride around the country, find a nice grassy hill around sunset, like those golden hills in the Dakotas. Take a seat, a moment to pause for some self-reflection, then open my backpack, take out the gun, and pull the trigger on a promise to finish it.

—ooOoo—

Magical. Laying there in bed naked, stretching, recoiling from the light that’s starting to break through the double doors leading to the balcony.

Those intrusive sounds. Those dear civil servants. Those mornings after. When a cop wakes up the sleepers, so a man can power wash sidewalks.

Imagination. Seeing her lay there naked, the sheets only covering mostly her legs, with her breasts exposed, her nipples hard from a morning chill.

She stretches and twists, her eyes are still closed, but with a smile that deepens as she extends her legs and stretches her arms above her head.

—ooOoo—

“If I had a soul to sell, I’d but some time to talk to my brain cell.”

—ooOoo—

I started writing this post on Thursday (04/17/2025) morning. It’s now Saturday (04/19/2025) morning, and I’m feeling quite marvelous today.

Meeting people, listening to music, fucking around, eating yummy foods; it just doesn’t get much better than this for me. Not much better indeed.

Jacques-Imo’s for dinner, an air boat ride on a bayou, brunch at the Court of Two Sisters… I even ended up at Tipitina’s for a record release party.

It was good to revisit these places. Several reminded me of some of the best days of my life, and the amazing people that shared them with me.

I gotta go back this year. I’m thinking another Halloween. It just feels like there’s a fuck-ton of unfinished business and things for me in NOLA.

The Weeping Angel for one. I just gotta remember: The Hyams family mausoleum in Metairie Cemetery. Not that cemetery; the other one – lol

We knew it could never be anything more than what it was at the time, given the age difference, but we were a wonderful, beautiful distraction.

A musician with a melodic intensity like no other. A truly accomplished violinist, who had already performed internationally by the time we met.

Awarded a full-ride for vocals at a prestigious university, I particularly enjoyed the mornings, when she would sing while showering with me.

Although there are things that shouldn’t be discussed, it wasn’t always depravity, frolicking, and shenanigans. I have many family memories too.

I’ll never forget that trip with Nicole during the Construction Law Forum, or the trip with Nicolas and Steve, or even the trip with Janice and Neal.

I can even add Carson to the list. Although we were doing our own thing this trip, we did connect for some fun times together. It made me smile.

—ooOoo—

William Allen White is known for saying: “My advice to the women of America is to raise more hell and fewer dahlias.” This makes me think.

Quite honestly, why choose? What’s wrong with raising hell AND raising dahlias? Why does everything have to be so binary? We not have both?