Ezekiel's Daughter

These brief missives get formed and reformed. It’s instructive to realize how the same facts can be massaged into essays that have different effects. Instructive for writing fiction and poetry, if nothing else. (Just think how many times those first two sentences were written and rewritten—if they are still there!) These blog entries are the only “writing” that I can do on the computer. Everything else gets a first draft on paper. 

Out of yesterday’s assignments:

I saw three more of the Prospect 1 Art exhibits.

One was probably better seen at night. The installation was on the slab of a house that once stood in the Lower Ninth Ward. The artist had outlined the image of the house that once stood there in white Christmas lights. In the middle of the slab was a wooden chair. So you were able to walk up the steps and walk around the house that no longer existed. 

Another was a display of Keith Calhoun and Chandra McCormick Calhoun's photographs. They had an extensive collection. I saw their prints at Jazz Fest each year. Most of the prints were photos of life in southeast Louisiana, both rural and city. I have a magnet on my fridge of one of their photos. (That’s all I could afford!) The couple was flooded out and has since moved to Texas. But in a double shotgun, some of their surviving photos are displayed. One side of the shotgun has the perfectly preserved photos, and the other side has a few of the damaged photos. The damaged photos are framed, but the flood damage is evident. Faces have disappeared. Figures have become unrecognizable swirls of black and white. Some look like pictures of floodwater; nature has taken a self-portrait.

The third installation was untitled. It took me a while to find it. (I have no sense of direction.) And it was a mural. Well—it was a house painted orange. Some of the yard and street was also painted orange. Ok.   I was bemused, but I’m afraid that this one went over my head.

I also got a chance to see some of the “Putting it Right” houses that Brad Pitt helped to champion. Impressive. Although they all look way too expensive for lower middle class folks to buy without help. (The Ninth Ward had 70-80% home ownership. Teachers, mailmen, service workers, machinists, etc. etc.)    Just raising a house to the height that they are built is probably around $25,000. It’s a moot point for now because I think that former residents are getting help, but it would have been nice if affordable houses had been designed. On the other hand, these houses probably are the definition of affordable in an area that used to be swampland. 

There has been buckets of print spilled on whether people should have been “allowed” to build in the area again.   When they stop allowing people to build wooden homes close to national forests or building homes on the side of mountains, I will be willing to listen.   Or say, when the city finds a way to ‘allow’ those residents to build in the central city for the same price as they could build them--without financial help---in the Ninth Ward, I will listen. Somehow when they talk about shrinking the city by moving people inwards, they never mention how to get the land out of the hands of the people who own it in the central city. 

You see the quandary of city government in a capitalist country.   (Those few socialistic countries get their own quandaries.) The city cannot afford to support police, water, and fire support for a city that is so widespread, but has fewer people and less tax revenue. But the city cannot move those people inwards. They don’t own the empty land. The people who own the land in such a system have the right to ask a price that matches the desire for the land. I couldn’t afford a suddenly million-dollar home in the Irish Channel, so I doubt a retired teacher could either.   Stalemate.

And those central city residents have a right to not sell the land. Not all of them are wealthy homeowners.   Mid-City also flooded. Some of these people are still shell-shocked. It’s easy for me to say, get on with your life. But it took me years to get over the death of my parents. They lost, in some cases, parents, friends, house and lifestyle. Who am I to say, ‘get over it?’ 

But I wander. I was reviewing Saturday’s to-do list.

I made it to Hadag Nahash. And what a blast! Zollie’s daughter was going and he insisted that we meet up. So, there I was on the very front row: a 50-something woman with a 20-something young woman. Bounding around and dancing to Israeli funk/rock and roll music. Yes, I acted a fool. But think, I never had that experience when I was 20-something. At that age, it was too important that I succeed and be what my parents wanted me to be. Being middle-class and Black in the 70’s was like being a child of immigrants. You had been passed the baton and it was all up to you. I left her at midnight, still seeking autographs of the musicians. She had 6 of the 8 and was looking for the other two. The band is still at the stage where they can mingle with the crowd. Lots of photos taken; lots of conversation and autographs. I hope that the club, Howling Wolf, made enough money so that we see them come back. One mentioned that he loved The Meters and was happy to find that he was coming to their city.* I don’t know how much New Orleans music they heard while here. The Soul Rebels were setting up for a performance after them, but I’m not familiar with them.   This is the second Israeli band that has come through.   Whatever is happening on the music scene, I like it!

No, I didn’t get my 30 minutes in the gym, but considering the way that I ache today, I think that I got the equivalent. Oh, the arches! Oh, my hip! I still have to make it out to Elmwood Fitness for today’s 30 minutes. 

The phone is out. This was written Sunday morning. Heaven knows when I will be able to post it.    I could copy it to my Palm and email it to livejournal when I go to the gym. They have free wireless. But come on. It’s just a blog entry. Let’s say that this was written Sunday. Its expressions and opinions are frozen at around 11 am Sunday morning. On the other hand, if I change them later you will never know! Remember, “These brief missives get formed and reformed.”