Keith Istre

I though leaving my devastated city, even for a short time, would lift my spirits. But, the ride to the suburbs for groceries ended up being too emotional. It was especially moving during the ride back into New Orleans.

I have accepted the abandonment and damage. But there is one thing that has become an icon for me. It wasn’t the first time I saw it or will be the last. As I ride down the interstate ramp, I see waterlines, studies in elevation. The lines are like forced tattoos that identify variability.

My eyes tear. There is nothing to say. I wonder when the waterlines will be cleaned or at least washed away by nature and time. I know some will never be cleaned or vanish.

The grief for my city is not worn on my sleeves. I wear them in my eyes, watery eyes. And the sight of waterlines make them overflow.

But things are looking up. Two Thursdays ago, I got electricity connected to my apartment. This morning, the first day of the New Year, I filled my cast iron bathtub with warm water. I lit a candle, turned the lights out and sink into the comforting warmth. It didn’t last long.

The water smelled like a swimming pool that has twice as many chemicals than it needs. I pulled out and dried off disappointedly. But I am still happy I had the chance after nearly four months.

I have the chance to wake up in my own bed. The chance to watch my own television on cable I pay for. Living on some of my own terms. As the New Year starts, I am happy I have the chance to live in my city.

I decide to walk to the café. I enjoy walking and experiencing my neighborhood and its people. I hope it will let me feel like I am really back home. After that first walk of the year, I know now why I love New Orleans.

How many cities can you come back to after such destruction and see “follow the yellow fridge road” spray painted on a stinky refrigerator discarded on the sidewalk in the French Quarter. This is not the only example that hopes to bring silliness to the situation. Other refrigerators are marked “no more hippy food” and then others addressed overnight to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; Washington, DC.

I notice another creative use of debris, “Hellabot.” The thing is on the median of Saint Claude Avenue. The boulevard runs from uptown then along the French Quarter, Marigny, Bywater and lower ninth ward neighborhoods and then into Saint Bernard parish. Standing about ten feet, Hellabot can be a marker of why this city will be again. The current of creative juices is too strong here. New Orleans’ history of artistry serves as proof. Today’s debris art confirms its creative appeal to the end.

I don’t know if everything will be cleaned. I don’t know if every building will be fixed. I don’t even know who my neighbors will be.

What I do know is that I am writing this in New Orleans on the first day of a new era for my beloved city. And that is good enough for me. I am happy, even if my eyes still water from the sight of waterlines.

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The last show of my play completes its curtain call. The audience claps. I think, thank god. I toast my cast and crew and declare, “It’s been a rocky road, but it’s been scenic.”

I gather my valuables from the stage. As the writer, I’m numb to the idea of a next step. This is only my second produced play. What’s next? I tell myself to finish what you have to do in the theater and go home to bed.

The next morning is different, but not any better. I decide there’ll be a next step. But the tricky part is, I have to decide what that next step is. Do I have to make the decision now? I take a cautious breath and collect myself. I need to sleep on it. But it’s eight in the morning and I’m at work.

“I’m not feeling well, I’m taking sick leave,” I tell my supervisor.

“I don’t blame you,” she replies.

What does she mean? Do I look that nerve wrecked? My god, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I grab my backpack, sign out and get through the exit doors.

I call my friend to tell him I took the day off. I really want someone to put this thing in prospective for me. I hope he can.

He does in one word, “decompression.”

I’m like a diver who went too far down too fast. Now I need decompression time. I need a good decompression chamber. I get home and go straight to bed. I crash instantly.

I wake two hours and several dreams later. I feel less crushed. But still feel overly indecisive.
It’s time for my next decompression cycle. I pick up the book I’ve been reading. It’s a book about writing. I start reading.

“Don’t forget you have an imagination,” hits me like a spot light. Have I forgotten my imagination? Where did I put it? It’s one of the things I love the most.

Sure style, process and grammar are important. But without imagination, my words are dead. A photograph is only the tool to express the image. The photographer needs the image first then he can put it on film and develop it onto paper.

I realize this doesn’t answer my question. What is my next step? Or is the question, what is my first step?

One of the greatest crosses for me as a writer is to focus my imagination enough to put it down on paper. Sometimes the ideas are too numerous. But I must choose to write something. Or I am not a writer.

I go to my next stress reliever. I start filling my bath with warm water. I sit in the tub feeling the water rise around me. I close my eyes and let my mind settle.

After a few minutes, I open my eyes to check the depth of the water. I proceeded to settle again in my relaxed state. I notice that a large chip of paint has peeled off my bathroom doorframe.

Should I find a new bold color and paint the whole doorframe and the walls? Or maybe I can just paint it over with the same color. But I have a better idea.

Why don’t I find a new color for the doorframe to match the color of the walls around it?

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