I was thinking about New Orleans today. My New Orleans, whose streets and alleys are as personal and intimate to me as a pussy stroke. Far away from the blaze of Bourbon where the neon children live their lives that burn bright, flicker, then die. Away from the tourist traps where Black men are forced to shuck and jive for those who are simultaneously lily White and scaly with sunburn, and who are all too pleased to press a dollar in a palm that’s butter mellow or burnt sienna to ease their consciences of what their granddaddies did and what their grandbabies will continue to do. Far, far outside the districts where the night air is weighted differently; the sound of the Zydeco creeping on the wind like a ghost in the alleyways. Where the slow drawl of, ‘how you doin’ ‘chere?’ is as satisfying as the crunch of new gravel under the heel of my boot; good for the ear and the Soul. Where the familiar smell of smoke, stale beer and sawdust floors feel like home, and I can dance, and dance, and dance.