I’m a little more tired this morning than I was yesterday morning, which is fine. Hopefully the coffee will do its daily trick and get my eyes further open and my brain more functional, because I have a very long day in front of me and I have, as always, a lot to get done. I did get quite a bit done yesterday–not quite enough, as ever–but I manage to get almost everything on my to-do list crossed off before getting started on writing a new one, but I only wrote one thing down and then I got it done, so I get to start over yet again this morning, Huzzah, I think?
I also see a lot of new emails that need to be answered at some point today as well. Heavy sigh.
It’s cold in the Lost Apartment again this morning, and the sun is beginning to rise in the east. The first news push I saw since sitting down at the computer indicates that the river is rising again. I wasn’t so aware that there was so much snow and rain upstream this year in the Midwest, or maybe a rising river every year in January is something we get to look forward to dealing with from now on; I don’t know. Water is the city’s natural and mortal enemy, and always has been since the French arrived 302 years ago and founded a settlement on a high bank of land between swampy bayous and the river. Reading all this New Orleans history as I’ve been doing lately–over the last year or so–has given me a truly deeper appreciation of the city, its people and culture, than I ever had before. Richard Campanella’s Bourbon Street–which is now up the 1980’s, as tourism began to rise as one of the more important economic bases of the city–has been truly fascinating. A lot of the hotels and businesses and buildings, for example, that I thought had been there forever are a lot more recent than I would have ever dared imagine; even the Bourbon Orleans, which I had always believed was simply an old convent converted into a hotel, was actually built fairly recently; not much of the original convent is still there.
Kind of makes those stories about the hotel being haunted by former nuns and dead Civil War soldiers (the convent was used as a military hospital during that war) kind of suspect now, doesn’t it? I suppose ghosts could haunt a location rather than an actual building; could remain to haunt the newer construction as well as the old.
I still have to write that historical Sherlock Holmes story as well. The French Quarter, in the time I would be writing about, wasn’t the Quarter it is today; it was more rundown in the early twentieth century, and was primarily home to a lot of Italian/Sicilian immigrants, who worked primarily on the docks or in the factories (yes, there were factories in the French Quarter) and most locals regarded the Quarter as barely more than a slum and a rough part of town–not much has really changed in that opinion, frankly, other than no one thinks of it as a slum these days, but locals tend to think of the Quarter as a rough part of town and Bourbon Street as a place primarily targeted for tourists, other than, of course, Galatoire’s, Arnaud’s, and Antoine’s.
I also need to get back to work on the Secret Project, which I had hoped to do last night yet was too tired to bother with when I got home from work late last night. I did managed to cook some chicken breasts for snacking and to take for lunch as well as do the dishes and run the dishwasher, but other than that I was pretty much lying in my reclining chair with Scooter asleep in my lap as I let Youtube do as it wished by allowing it to run unabated or unstopped once I clicked on a Carpenters video–I’ve been listening to the Carpenters a lot lately; consistently amazed at the remarkably pure quality of Karen Carpenter’s voice–which inevitably leads to thinking about how her remarkable, extraordinary talent was essentially destroyed by an eating disorder than killed her, very young; I believe that Karen Carpenter was the first very public person to die from anorexia nervosa, and that death brought a lot of attention to eating disorders, which have never really been out of the public consciousness since she died.
It’s sad to think about all the great music she could have made had she lived longer.
Okay, this morning’s coffee is kicking in, so it’s back to the spice mines with me. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader.