Another page from my attempt to cross-examine Santa Claus, age 7. Click through for other pages. I remember being a little pissed at the smugness of “It’s frozen.” I gave him all that space to answer…
4:50 pm • 24 December 2013 • 21 notes
"New Orleans, as I’ve always had a guess, is the birthplace of ready-made victims."
7:10 pm • 16 December 2013 • 14 notes
- New Orleans is not my home, but I grew up in Jackson, so we took many trips there throughout my childhood. I also visited New Orleans several times with friends as a teenager and once with a boyfriend in 2008.
- My mother grew up less than an hour away from New Orleans, just across the Mississippi border. (They still got The Times-Picayune.)
- New Orleans was the first place I experienced a palpable craving for solitude as a child; my first memory of wanting to walk around a city alone was somewhere above the French Quarter. I was not allowed to do this, of course.
- I went to New Orleans alone for three days this past November and stayed in an old shotgun house on Philip Street in the Garden District. I walked for most of those three days.
- I almost died when I was 18 in New Orleans, specifically from acute liver failure due to an autosomal recessive genetic disorder that causes my body to accumulate toxic amounts of copper. I was driven from Jackson to Tulane Hospital and placed at the top of the list for a liver transplant but luckily didn’t end up needing it. (I am one of the lesser known X-Men characters.)
- The first thing I saw this past November when I landed at Louis Armstrong and stepped off the plane was a giant sign that says: RANKED #1 IN THE NATION IN LIVER TRANSPLANTS. The layers of irony in this are too exhausting to type here.
- This photo was taken in the shotgun house on Philip Street with 800 speed Kodak film that was given to me for free by a shop owner on Bourbon Street; he said he “couldn’t sell it.” When I left the shop I noticed that the price tags ($6.99) were conveniently covering the expiration dates on the boxes. I peeled the price tags off to find that this particular roll had expired in July 2005: one month before Hurricane Katrina.
- The last lucid conversation I had with my dad was about New Orleans, a few days after Katrina. My uncle had fled to Jackson during the storm to stay with my parents. (They still had electricity.) My uncle had brought his dog, which, according to my dad on the telephone, was in desperate need of a bath. We laughed about the dog, and we talked about the levees. A month later at the hospital I brought up the topic of the dog at his bedside when he was slipping in and out of consciousness, and I saw him try to laugh. He died a few hours later.
2:20 pm • 10 December 2013 • 38 notes
Me in Jackson, Miss. // Polaroid 669 // by David McCarty
I like these because they were taken last week but could have been taken thirty years ago. And portraits of anyone are better unplanned.
12:32 pm • 2 December 2013 • 27 notes
A Girl I Don’t Remember Photographing, Charleston, 2010
2:38 pm • 18 November 2013 • 15 notes