Read: "HERE WE AREN'T, SO QUICKLY" Jonathan Safran Foer's latest short story in The New Yorker's Summer Fiction Issue.

eye sight.

Yesterday I met the medical director for the remote medical company that dealt with the Horizon rig explosion in April. His name was Michael, he wore gold chains and spoke softly. He had broken blood vessels in his nose, smelled like old spice after shave. His iPhone was broken and for obvious reasons needed it fixed right away. I was looking at his phone and noticed the phone number for the horizon rig in his contacts and asked him about it. I guess he works as a telemedicine director or remote MD. When the deep water horizon rig exploded on April 20th the doctors in his practice and all of his nurses responded immediately in Harahan, Louisiana. He showed me pictures of the staples in the workers heads. He did say that although the blast immediately killed 11 men that were working close to the drill column no one who survived had any major injuries. He said softly that these men were never lost at sea, they had died instantly in the blast. Michael and his company were hired byTransocean and continue to work on many of the rigs still in operation. He tried to stress to me what a good company Transocean was. He told me that the medical care, including psychological was above and beyond what he sees from the other companies that hire him. I honestly said nothing while he was talking. It reminded me that above all of the politics and the bullshit that people died that day, in the dark in the middle of the ocean. But there was no doubt his mind that there were some shady practices from BP.

I guess I am having one of those days when the world feels like its ending. I want the war to be over, I want the spill to be capped, I want the levees rebuilt, I want malaria to go away, I want to stop child and animal abuse.

While Matt and I were driving to New Orleans, he asked me "do you ever feel like the end of the world is close?" What an amazing conversation starter eh? My first response was, people have been thinking the world is going to end forever, and yet it never has. We talked about population growth, GMOs, climate change and the role of the government.

It's weird to live in a place where the end could be potentially near. But as my dad would say " I am just being chicken little and the sky is falling!" But the sky could fall here. Today my air conditioning is out and to most people who live here than means, get a hotel room or stay somewhere else. If you can imagine New Orleans without electricity you get: pretty much the end of the world. This has been proved many times, namely by Katrina. Dead animals, rotted refrigerators, mildewed houses, gang activity, complete loss of infrastructure, disease, violence and, the massive loss of human life. And all of this can happen in the United States. Oh, yes. And the oil spill doesn't help at all. But alas, life must go on. But to live in a place where pure anarchy is possible!

I had another dream, where I saw the back of you in a cornfield. and it was flooding.

Song of the day: "Canvas" Imogen Heap

Calling Your Names

Saying Your Names
Chemical names, bird names, names of fire
and flight and snow, baby names, paint names,
delicate names like bones in the body,
Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing,
names that no one's ever able to figure out.
Names of spells and names of hexes, names
cursed quietly under the breath, or called out
loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again,
calling you home. Nicknames and pet names
and baroque French monikers, written in
shorthand, written in longhand, scrawled
illegibly in brown ink on the backs of yellowing
photographs, or embossed on envelopes lined
with gold. Names called out across the water,
names I called you behind your back,
sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable,
the names of flowers that open only once,
shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops,
or muffled by pillows, or whispered in sleep,
or caught in the throat like a lump of meat.
I try, I do. I try and try. A happy ending?
Sure enough—Hello darling, welcome home.
I'll call you darling, hold you tight. We are
not traitors but the lights go out. It's dark.
Sweetheart, is that you? There are no tears,
no pictures of him squarely. A seaside framed
in glass, and boats, those little boats with
sails aflutter, shining lights upon the water,
lights that splinter when they hit the pier.
His voice on tape, his name on the envelope,
the soft sound of a body falling off a bridge
behind you, the body hardly even makes
a sound. The waters of the dead, a clear road,
every lover in the form of stars, the road
blocked. All night I stretched my arms across
him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing
with all my skin and bone Please keep him safe.
Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be
like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed
to pieces. Makes a cathedral, him pressing against
me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe
his mouth his heaven, his kisses falling over me
like stars. Names of heat and names of light,
names of collision in the dark, on the side of the
bus, in the bark of the tree, in ballpoint pen
on jeans and hands and the backs of matchbooks
that then get lost. Names like pain cries, names
like tombstones, names forgotten and reinvented,
names forbidden or overused. Your name like
a song I sing to myself, your name like a box
where I keep my love, your name like a nest
in the tree of love, your name like a boat in the
sea of love—O now we're in the sea of love!
Your name like detergent in the washing machine.
Your name like two X's like punched-in eyes,
like a drunk cartoon passed out in the gutter,
your name with two X's to mark the spots,
to hold the place, to keep the treasure from
becoming ever lost. I'm saying your name
in the grocery store, I'm saying your name on
the bridge at dawn. Your name like an animal
covered with frost, your name like a music that's
been transposed, a suit of fur, a coat of mud,
a kick in the pants, a lungful of glass, the sails
in wind and the slap of waves on the hull
of a boat that's sinking to the sound of mermaids
singing songs of love, and the tug of a simple
profound sadness when it sounds so far away.
Here is a map with your name for a capital,
here is an arrow to prove a point: we laugh
and it pits the world against us, we laugh,
and we've got nothing left to lose, and our hearts
turn red, and the river rises like a barn on fire.
I came to tell you, we'll swim in the water, we'll
swim like something sparkling underneath
the waves. Our bodies shivering, and the sound
of our breathing, and the shore so far away.
I'll use my body like a ladder, climbing
to the thing behind it, saying farewell to flesh,
farewell to everything caught underfoot
and flattened. Names of poisons, names of
handguns, names of places we've been
together, names of people we'd be together.
Names of endurance, names of devotion,
street names and place names and all the names
of our dark heaven crackling in their pan.
It's a bed of straw, darling. It sure as shit is.
If there was one thing I could save from the fire,
he said, the broken arms of the sycamore,
the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard—
your breath on my neck like a music that holds
my hands down, kisses as they burn their way
along my spine—or rain, our bodies wet,
clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging
nipple to groin—I'll be right here. I'm waiting.
Say hallelujah, say goodnight, say it over
the canned music and your feet won't stumble,
his face getting larger, the rest blurring
on every side. And angels, about twelve angels,
angels knocking on your head right now, hello,
hello, a flash in the sky, would you like to
meet him there, in Heaven? Imagine a room,
a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can't go through with it.
I just don't want to die anymore.

Oh Sweet Nothin'

So I fail at this blog once a day for a year thing. I think I am going to lessen the terms given that there is not only public drinking here but also a lack of wireless internet in my otherwise perfect apartment.

I have been here for about three weeks and here are some things I have learned about New Orleans: the roads are for total shit, New Orleans is going through "submerged water" road rebuilding and could not come any faster. It's so bad in fact I think I have ruined my front axle. Every single street is a one way, when you want to turn right you can't, when you want to turn left you better think again. This is all complicated by the fact that everyone drives like they are coming down from a serious coke addiction. Serena and I were talking about what a fantastic invention the turn signal is, and where it has its origins. The people of New Orleans know nothing of their turn signals--they don't even make the effort to put it on when they have already turned. When you drive here you should not only check your bling spot but also your psycho spot, which is a 360 degree sweep of everything that is going on around you and to look for that one asshole 100 feet back who is going to pass you at like 90 MPH and just about kill you. Coming from Boulder I have bad road rage, but here you just sit in your car and shake your head like: did that really just happen? yes. and your still alive lets celebrate by having a hurricane while driving shall we? And no one honks at each other, it's all very courteous besides the life threatening driving. oh, the south.

Random bullets here used to/ are still a problem I hear. Apparently it is tradition to shoot your gun in the air on new years--but the death toll of this tradition has gotten so high the city has outlawed it. the Times-Picayune publishes a note asking people to please please not shoot these random bullets into the air. Also! something that I love: at Christmas time the people of new orleans await papa noel. who is the cajun santa. They light bon fires all along the levees that surround the city so papa noel can deliver boiled crabs and hush puppies into New Orleanian's stockings. This tradition is so cool in fact that there are tours around the levees during the holidays so tourists can witness.

People drink everywhere. one of the other not awesome reasons to live here along side high crime, morbid economy and the potential of being totally wiped out by a hurricane. I think all of these reasons is why I get the "you're moving WHERE? why would you do that?" from literally almost everyone I talk to.

But the truth is, I have this massive crush on this city. so much so that I make excuses for it. For example: high crime? Erin justification: it must just be a phase and it doesn't happen in my neighborhood! I am pretty much as enthusiastic about this city as the natives if not more. I love the way this city drips with moisture, I love that people have so much love and adoration for something so beat to shit. Something I have also learned people hold onto things here. Not "things" like you and I would define it but symbols of community, tradition, and just the plain "good ol' days" Like today I met Rene Brunet who has owned and operated the Prytania theater for more than 70 years! Can you believe that? everyday he comes to work in his "movie" tie, and god I wish you could see just how god damned inviting this man is. He told me that the theater has undergone many remodels, which now include a digital projector, 3D ability and a new popper as of the last 3 years. This is huge in Louisiana's oldest theater. The only original theater left in New Orleans. I walked in to the theater today to see the new Toy Story and I just about walked by him but he looked right at me, smiled his giant southern mouth and said "Don't forget your 3D glasses!" Amazing that the owner was working a friday afternoon as an usher. I had to stop and talk to him. Or like the Zeitoun family that I have been reading about in Dave Eggers latest book which is about a Muslim man who stays in New Orleans during Katrina and helps his neighbors and clients with nothing but an aluminum canoe. Zeitoun is arrested by Homeland Security in his own home five days after the storm and is detained in a maximum security prison with no bail and no phone call. Daily pepper sprayings and the accusation that he is a terrorist. During the ordeal his wife Kathy in Baton Rouge presumes him dead. There is justice for this New Orleans family and--THEY MOVE BACK. The completely rebuild their house and refuse to leave uptown New Orleans. There is something about this place I swear to god.

And there is just something willful and wildly romantic about the attention paid to detail and beauty here, crumbling and fading beauty that needs constant attention--it makes this city unlike any other. I can sit on my porch and the wood on the balcony peels and molds in my hands. your home must be sprayed yearly for termites and my entire apartment sits at a complete tilt. but I love everything about it. I love the way it smells, I love the giant bathtub, the ironwork around my neighborhood, the sound of the street car and most of all, the blasting A/C unit. You can hear music everywhere, even in your sleep here. People really do talk to each other here. Quaker has almost an entire aisle of all the flavored grits you can get here. "sno-balls" are served by the boat load here and you can get condensed milk in them. brilliant.

I will admit that this is the first time in my life I have truly been alone. No parents, no boyfriend, no roommate, no friends. not a soul in New Orleans knows me. This is only the first full day of this new life but I feel achy in my chest about it. This thing of missing someone, lacking in their presence is not something I am used to. I have never suffered a death of someone extremely close to me, I have never left home. granted I have been heartbroken, but this is new. its quiet and sometimes crippling. I know it's early to be saying all of this but I feel a bit emptied. Like my beans have spilled out, the core of who I am is very far away. which has lead to me to realize how much I have not really been living in my body. I have felt pretty numbed out for the past...god many many years. So many distractions from living with me. I should cherish this opportunity. But I can't help but feeling so raw, like I am fresh from the womb. No one around to reflect me and in turn I feel totally fragmented--for the moment. All of my childish coping mechanisms are deactivated and no longer working. there is something obviously cleansing about this but it doesn't make it easier or fun.

I had a dream about being married last night. like the southern women are down here. big ring, nice car and the knowledge. oh the knowledge of that person. and it was matt who wore a silver band around his ring finger and he was wearing a button down, and nice shoes. we were trying to get to each other in Jackson Square and the police wouldn't let me cross the square and get to him. i circled him for hours and exhausted I slept on the street. and by the morning he was gone. I don't now what it meant but sometimes I have these wild urges to have this classically married life. which let me tell you is strange for someone who has enough marriage/divorce baggage to cripple a horde of desperate 30-somethings. I wish I could articulate really what it feels like to miss the presence of someone you love. I miss the weirdest things. I know many of you reading this already know the feeling of being far away from someone you love. and for the record I don't really want to be married like the southern women here...haha.

Something new and exciting: I think I finally understand the Beatles. It seems to be the theme music for the last 2 weeks. But the song I can't stop listening to: 'Oh sweet nothing" by The Velvet Underground.

So Erin why did you move to New Orleans?

The food of course!