Digging up old writing.
"Hobbes, what do you think happens to us when we die?"
"I think we play saxophone for an all-girl cabaret in New Orleans."
"So you believe in heaven?"
"Call it what you like."
- Calvin & Hobbes, Bill Watterson
I am another girl, today, I am a Her I've never met. I feel fabulous in a green velvet dress because it makes me look like a gypsy, and every morning I'm frustrated by my sunshine hair because it won't stay still when I tell it to. It curls and stretches, it bends away from me.
I live in a city of eroticism and liquor, and seizing life by the throat for experience's sake, in a city where there are gypsies everywhere, who are gypsies even without the green velvet dress. They live in different skins than mine, with different faces than mine; they move with a grace that can't be learned and a confidence that can't be taught. I am not one of them.
I've made my home in an old house that has charm instead of glory. I'm tucked away, all alone, intimidated and intoxicated by the fact that this city doesn't care for me, doesn't care whether or not I join the current of beautiful, independent bodies or remain hidden in my room, with its squeaking wood floors and antique tile in the shower stall.
I'm comfortable there, completely content with inferiority. Every night, when I lock my very old door with a rusting key, and walk lazily down the porch steps in high heels, I know that I belong in the place that has no place for me. I only want to be another anonymous mailbox, and a pair of earrings from the home-made gifts shop down the block. Another blonde girl in a gypsy dress at a coffee house with Cabernet colored tapestries on the wall.
Another girl enduring her job, paying her bills, and carrying on in the hiss of a city that's no heart and all soul, piling her purse and coat on a chair when she comes home from work and moving around her outdated kitchen to make a pot of late-night coffee, eating a TV dinner in a big blue bed with five fingers tangled in cat hair, watching a silent movie, windows always open, no breeze.
Being in New Orleans brings out the curious in me, and I think that blonde girl in the old house where all the doors are wood and make a satisfying noise when they close would be part of that cabaret, at least on Fridays, if she had the chance.