... & So It Goes
This anniversary of the federal levee failure is hitting me harder than either of the previous two. Last year I was hunkering down for Gustav, and I guess kind of in shock that it was coming. In '07 I was lying sick in bed from the pills I was addicted to. And of course the first anniversary, '06, was beautiful, then horrible: we went out to the dedication of the St. Bernard Parish memorial in Shell Beach that morning, and that afternoon one of our most beloved cats, Nathan, suddenly collapsed from undiagnosed/asymptomatic diabetes and died early the next morning.
The truth is that I will never like this time of year. There was never much to like about it, especially for someone who has always lived in the hot, humid south and hated school since the seventh grade. A confession: Chris and I had to change our anniversary, because neither of us was sure, but we thought it might be August 29. (Like many queer couples I've known, lacking a formal marriage date, we date our anniversary to the first time we had sex.) On the one hand, it was the best thing that ever happened to me; on the other, I was being unfaithful to another man, confused about what to do, and on the brink of the scary decision to move out on my own and fully support myself for the first time. (I say "fully," but during some of those lean times, it sure helped having a boyfriend who was a chef and would feed me.) So it wasn't an entirely happy time then, either. We moved our anniversary to November 5 because it would be a good time to travel and I've always been fond of Guy Fawkes' Day.
Anyway, I have no idea what I'm doing to observe today. I thought we might go to the N.O. Museum of Art events -- there will be a reading of the names of New Orleans' flood dead, and a showing of When The Levees Broke -- or some memorial Mass, but Chris doesn't want to get up early and I can't blame him, as he had to deal with restaurant drama (a cook/waiter quitting) until 4am last night. Maybe I will find some fucking sack and read my signed copy of Josh Neufield's A.D.
The truth is that I will never like this time of year. There was never much to like about it, especially for someone who has always lived in the hot, humid south and hated school since the seventh grade. A confession: Chris and I had to change our anniversary, because neither of us was sure, but we thought it might be August 29. (Like many queer couples I've known, lacking a formal marriage date, we date our anniversary to the first time we had sex.) On the one hand, it was the best thing that ever happened to me; on the other, I was being unfaithful to another man, confused about what to do, and on the brink of the scary decision to move out on my own and fully support myself for the first time. (I say "fully," but during some of those lean times, it sure helped having a boyfriend who was a chef and would feed me.) So it wasn't an entirely happy time then, either. We moved our anniversary to November 5 because it would be a good time to travel and I've always been fond of Guy Fawkes' Day.
Anyway, I have no idea what I'm doing to observe today. I thought we might go to the N.O. Museum of Art events -- there will be a reading of the names of New Orleans' flood dead, and a showing of When The Levees Broke -- or some memorial Mass, but Chris doesn't want to get up early and I can't blame him, as he had to deal with restaurant drama (a cook/waiter quitting) until 4am last night. Maybe I will find some fucking sack and read my signed copy of Josh Neufield's A.D.