Sequel to 'Lynn's Journeys'β¦
*
"Lynn, these are powerful, girl, really fucking powerful," Ali said, laying the 8x10 glossies down on the desk.
I had showed her a few of the shots that I particularly liked from one of the photo projects that I was working on.
After I moved to New Orleans, I began shooting pics of the Ninth Ward, pics that showed the despair of its denizens, pics that showed the devastation that surrounded them on every side.
There was no way to escape the horrible reality of their particular situations. Those that didn't move away were reduced to living in those FEMA joke-trailers for the most part, if their homes were not in livable condition.
Sitting outside to relieve the cramped condition of their living arrangements provided no relief or solace. To sit outside was to gaze upon mounds of devastation, still here after what was then, almost two years since Katrina.
No, there was no escape for them; for the brave who sought to rebuild this city, not into what it was but into what it could be, should be. No, there was no escape and yet they were still here.
Against all odds, they were still here.
Those were the glossies that Ali had looked at, gazed at, studied; she was moved by my photos, moved by the emotions that I had hoped the photos would stir up. They had, and I was pleased.
"When I'm through with shooting, I think I'll have enough material to be able to show if they're good enough," I offered as my motivation for the endless hours of work I had already put in on the project.
"Baby, don't even worry about they being good enough; as an artist, I can promise you, they are good enough, and yes, we will have a show for your series, whenever you're ready," Ali said to me, her eyes wet from the welling of tears.
She did see it; she saw the scenes just as I had, and as it had me, it brought forth the tears of an emotional connection to the horribleness of this particular truth.
Life continues to remind the human specie just how much of a 'bitch' she can be.
~
"Well, if it isn't my two favorite queers," Di said to us when we sat down at her piano bar.
It was a slow weekday night; a few couples at tables, some business men at the bar, and nobody at the piano bar until we showed up and parked our asses on the stools.
"Yes it is, and you love it when we're here and you know it," Ali said, all of us laughing.
Since we had met Di at that art show and shared some weed together, Ali and I had been coming to hear her at least once a week, sometimes twice and always during the weeknights, when it was slower, giving the three of us a chance to talk a bit more.
"Anything special you'd like to hear, ladies?" Di asked of us as she tinkled the keys in a bluesy style that could lead into almost any song.
"My Funny Valentine," Ali said, "I love the way you do that."
Leading into it from the funky riff she had been playing, her sultry voice took us for a wonderful ride.
Besides her gorgeous looks, this woman can flat-out sing; why she wasn't a major star was mind-boggling to Ali and me both.
We had become friendly, then friends with Di; she was comfortable with us being a couple, and we were comfortable with her as a good soul. She would talk frankly with us, asking us intimate questions about our relationship, and we would answer her, honestly.
It was our honesty that made her even more comfortable with us.
She was aware that Ali and I thought her to be sexy and desirable; we had told her so one night when she joined us at the Quarters apartment to smoke some weed. She accepted the fact that we lusted for her with grace, I must say.
If it made her uncomfortable, it wasn't enough for her not to continue to be friends with us, continue to hang with us or go to dinner with us. For our part, we didn't really pursue trying to get into Di's panties, neither of us wanting to risk the friendship we had developed.
This particular evening, I sensed something was different, not being quite sure what it was. Di was to solve that mystery for me, later that evening, after she played 'last
call'.
"So, what are you two going to do now?" Di asked, smiling as she put her sheet music into a large leather pouch.
"Hadn't really thought about it, but we're open for suggestions," Ali offered
"Want to go to your place in the Quarters and share some of
my
weed for a change," Di asked, eyebrows raised for an answer.
"Don't have to twist our arms," I joked.
"I sure hope I don't," Di answered, somewhat mysteriously.
The mystery was solved at our apartment.
Her weed was excellent, as it turned out, getting us into a mellow zone very quickly. She was also quite a bit more touchy with us, to us, tonight; her hand on top of one of ours when making a point, her hand on a thigh when laughing, letting it linger just a bit longer than would be comfortable for the straights of the world.
Finally, after finishing the second doobie, after the three of us were stoned out of our gourds, Di cleared the mystery up for us, for me anyway.
"Man, I know I'm going to fuck this up," Di began, "but ya'll try to hang with me as I try to say what I'm trying to say," laughing at her stoned mis-speaks.
"Okay, I've got it now," she said, a serious look now on her face, her very beautiful face.