dispatches

Another change of environment

The Minnesota Public Radio station interrupted All Things Considered with a severe storm warning. “Vicinity of I-90 and Co Hwy 12 in Winona County. Damaging hail possible.”

I was driving a remote circuitous route that my GPS unit determined for me (I never carry maps anymore), so I pulled off the county road on a wide shoulder by a farmhouse driveway. The storm in question was several miles to the northwest. Thunder growled continuously from all directions. Occasionally I'd see a clear bolt of lightning hit the ground, but mostly I saw flashes behind roiling dark clouds that look lifted from the stained glass windows of my hometown church.

I adore the Midwest, for just this sort of spectacle. Where I live has no discernible weather. One season blends weakly into the next and, except for the occasional November windstorm, nothing much happens in the sky. Here, the weather can kill you any month of the year.

I've lived in this part of the country at various times—college in Ohio, a year in Kansas, a winter in Minneapolis, a spring in the Michigan north woods—and I miss this drama. After I had my fill of the sky show (and as the rain started splatting), I got back on the road and appeared to drive into a car wash. The boundary between road and air disappeared into a violent wet smudge. Then, in a sudden instant, I crossed a boundary and the deluge became drizzle. The sky ahead was a benign pastiche of pastels, but in my mirrors it was a solid black.

I really am an American

A notable sensation when whizzing down Washington, DC streets is the catch in the throat as you glimpse iconic national landmark after iconic national landmark. Oh, there's the Capitol Dome, there's the White House, the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial. The latter we took a cab to in order to photograph some students admiring the cherry blossoms, which are at their peak this week. We had to share the path with 80,000 other people however--finding a spot with any semblance of serenity took some doing.

While waiting for our couple to show up (it took them a half hour to park), I visited the Jefferson Memorial. Despite the Boy Scout troops and school groups and throngs of tourists, I found a kind of  serenity in this rotunda. And then I read the words inscribed in marble, and I was moved to tears. “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal...” And also, “...I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just, that his justice cannot sleep forever. Commerce between master and slave is despotism. Nothing is more certainly written in the book of fate that these people are to be free...”

On the west end of the reflecting pool is the Lincoln, even more moving in its simplicity (it is unfortunate the same cannot be said for the monstrosity at the other end, the WWII, which reeks of triumphalism and heavy-handed symbolism). On one side is inscribed the Gettysburg Address, on the other, his second inaugural speech. This one completes the sentiment in Jefferson's, only now Lincoln avers that God has seen fit to wreak his judgment upon the nation for our stain. It is a moving speech, worth the effort to plow through the nineteenth century syntax.

Visiting these pilgrimage sites I feel powerfully stirred in my patriotism, and my devotion to my identity as an American. Our country has an exceptional status in the course of human history, and these ideals, particularly when we are not living up to them, are worth fighting to preserve. These monuments of Washington, DC, they are the temples for our American secular religion.

He'll fly away

More on yesterday's funeral parade, which was a big enough deal to be top of the fold on the Metro section of the Times-Picayune: http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/frontpage/index.ssf?/base/news-27/120435304353690.xml&coll=1

Labile or unstable?

“There's a Second Line funeral parade that's going to come down Poydras in about five minutes.” Most of us abandoned our computers and rushed to the corner. Sure enough, there were two feathered and bedecked figures leading a brass band and a funeral procession. Dancing and joy, down the main street of downtown New Orleans. The clutch of us circled the front of the parade with our pro cameras, and  another dozen tourists took pictures with their small camera and their phones.

I felt the rush of joy and energy as I danced in the street. Then the funeral procession came by. My heart was open, and I felt the wallop of grief from the back half of the parade. This dancing is commemorating a death, and I teared up instantly. I had to turn into the parking lot behind me, where no one would see, and openly weep.

I am emotionally labile these days. Last night I reveled (how many mood swings can I fit into a single day?) in how the opening two scenes segued perfectly. I started to see the rough outline of my piece, with what remnants I could scour that were actually held still for more than 2 seconds. I did my interview and one musical piece on tripod, and everything from Tipitina's on Sunday was on sticks. There's a sweet clip of Bruce playing accordion with his third grade daughter, on guitar, with 10 usable seconds. Now though, I've been at it for 13 hours now, and I am starting to make significant errors. I'm trusting that my sleeping self will tell me how to fix all the problems with the piece by morning, and it'll be in some form resembling finished by the 4pm screening.

So near, but so far away

It is beginning to dawn on me that I may spend my entire New Orleans sojourn without ever having had a decent meal.

We begin our days at 8:45 after having scrounged a breakfast from within downtown hotel dead zone that we're in (our shabby hotel does not provide any food). At 12:30 or 1 we break for our two or three hour shooting assignment, during which we scarf down some fuel. We meet for critique, take a 45 minute break, then convene again until 9 or 9:30pm.

And these are the light days. We're about to go into editing mode.

Still learning

In Mary Lee Lyke's living room, I was a spectacular dancer. I had booked a couple of private lessons with her before my trip. We seamlessly two-stepped together and  pulled off every hotshot move in the book. Cajun dancing never felt so free and joyful.

Something must happen to the Northerner's brain when they cross into Louisiana. What moves? Do I know anything? The two step rhythm was natural enough, but for the life of me, nothing else would come.

The cliquishness from the Rock and Bowl zydeco evening was absent, replaced with a warm, welcoming community. I had barely stashed my gear and changed my shoes before a woman asked me to dance. At the end she handed me off to another. I never lacked for a partner. It felt like a friendly contra dance gathering.

That I still couldn't remember how to do anything didn't detract from having a fun evening. At the break I spoke to Bruce Daigrepont, the accordianist, got permission to video, and made a date with him for Thursday, my final project shooting date. He loves to talk about the music—he's going to be a great interview.

Put in my place

Weeks of dance lessons, multitudes of websites bookmarked. Now, here I stand at the famous New Orleans  Rock and Bowl at the Thursday night zydeco dance. And I'm thoroughly intimidated.

It's a mixed crowd, parsed many ways. Mostly, but not entirely white. A dress code notable by the lack of one. There are men in Western hats and big silver belt buckles and slim jeans and boots, and there are men who looked like they wandered in from a contra dance, in uniform—shorts, t-shirt, sneakers, sweat rag looped on the belt. Everyone is dancing with an aura of complete, and often sexy self-assuredness. This is home. This is where they meet their friends. This is not where I belong.

Six dances later, I manage to nab a partner. And the two-step has completely left my head. I cannot catch the rhythm. I step right, she steps left. Her smile is getting tighter. My frame is good though, and by the end of the song I'm in sync. She parts with me very quickly.

The next partner treats me roughly. “Don't bounce. Level shoulders. Little steps.” Nothing has yet happened to suggest that my initial attitude was not the appropriate one. I notice later that she is extremely choosy about who she'll dance with, picking only the smooth hotshots.

Finally I get a partner, not much more experienced than I am, with whom I can recover a whiff of my self confidence. “You're so good at navigating!” (I didn't plow into anyone). We dance again, then with her friend, and I almost can do this. So long as I don't try anything fancy.

It's time for a beer, and a camera.

New Orleans arrival

The first New Orleans moment happened at baggage claim when a man walked by with a tuba. Hadn't ever seen that before in an airport. Half the houses on Franklin Avenue, a main thoroughfare into the city, are empty, wrecked, or listing to one side. In Bywater (realtorspeak for the upper Ninth Ward) there was no water or damage, and it's now a vibrant neighborhood of coffeeshops, metalwork foundries and an indigenous residential architecture rich with complex, ornamental details in the woodwork.

I'm here a couple of days early in preparation for a 9 day video workshop, put on by Digital Journalist. Expect reports of a deep immersion into everything video and New Orleans for the duration.

Pleasant weather in Chicago

Just tell me where to go

To a lot of people this is old hat. It's my first time however; bear with me while I wax enthusiastic.

I'm in New England on a week long contra dance junket. When I got my car they offered me a special on a GPS unit, and I splurged.

I am not a great navigator in the best of circumstances, so I compensate with multiple Google and Mapquest printouts, a DeLorme Atlas for whatever state I'm in, and an up to date membership with AAA so I can clean up on free maps for wherever I'm going. In the woods I am quite skilled with map and compass. I have to be. I have no native understanding about where I am. But Boston defeats me every time. Last year I had arranged to stay with friends my first night. Getting from Logan to Waltham seemed so simple in the abstract. But on the ground it was a different story. I parked under innumerable streetlamps, trying to reconcile what the street signs said and what was portrayed on my map. As I got closer I was in frequent cell phone contact with my overnight hosts, and even then they had to rescue me at a minimart and lead me to their house.

This time I had an authoritative female voice directing me. And I wasn't married to it, so therefore she had credibility. “Exit. Right. And. Bear. Left. In. Point. Two. Miles.” “Turn. Left. Onto. North. Road.” And bang, there I am, in Concord at my hotel. I have no idea where I am, but then again, I didn't need to know. I am both oddly disconcerted and relieved.

Can I get one of these things and take it wherever I travel?