So I’m riding my bike back from dinner with K. and some grocery shopping when I pass this street sign at the corner of Louisiana and Camp. It is warning drivers to park for no more than two hours (my failure to follow this sign has resulted in some pretty hefty fines this month). This sign was also home to that bike from several weeks ago that had been locked up there for months and months. The bike is gone, but it has been replaced by a rubber chicken and a clock. The chicken got jammed up there a few days ago, bringing back fond memories of the rubber chicken I almost caught two Mardi Gras ago (my short friend N. totally snaked it out from under me). Tonight, though, was the first time I noticed the clock, mounted on the sign just as it would be mounted on a wall. It’s broken, but it’s right twice a day. How convenient! I wonder who has decided to install this lovely street art, but I must say, it has brightened my day. I like how easily public property can be commandeered for another use; I wonder why it doesn’t happen more often. This little display is silly, but I appreciate it nonetheless, particularly on days like this one where I’m so, so tired that each pedal stroke feels like work.

Last night’s rain has left this city soggy, and I was a bit nervous about getting caught in a downpour on my ride to work. I stayed dry, but it’s definitely time to start thinking about getting some quality rain gear. I took the Surly out for the first time since I got home tonight, pedaling through Central City in the thick air. God, I love that bike. I snapped this picture on my way home, of graffiti at Dauphine and Conti. I’m not sure what makes some graffiti–I’m thinking of the stuff that says READ painted on abandoned buildings around town–and other graffiti just, well, graffiti. I pass this piece on my ride home all the time, and I just hate it. Sock Hop For Cops. I don’t get it, I don’t think there’s anything to get, and I’m just not digging it. But I don’t know why. I wonder what makes some graffiti  interesting, or art, or property defacement. My eyes have largely stopped seeing graffiti at this point, especially these pieces I pass all the time. But some nights, like tonight, I see them again and wonder again who put it there, why, and what other people see when they pass it. It’s good to be back on the bike.

Today’s bike ride took me down to the Marigny to meet up with S. for some writing and coffee. It is apparently the last warm day for awhile, but I’ll believe that when I feel it. I zipped back Uptown to meet K. for a show. A former student, Miss M., is a dancer, and invited me to see him in Darwin, a show put on by CORBiAN, in final rehearsals before hitting the road for a 44-city tour. I didn’t know what to expect, and I must say I was simply delighted. The puppets were constructed from the stuff usually seen just in glow sticks. They were operated by dancers who disappeared from the stage in the dark. This picture isn’t very good, but it’s not easy to get a good shot in a pitch dark warehouse. I wish I could capture for you the magic of the show. Puppets kept emerging, seemingly from nowhere, and the story–a dinosaur who finds love–was so lovely and kind…it was just a wonderful way to spend an evening. When the show comes to your town, please, please go see it. You won’t be disappointed. I left the hot and empty warehouse happy the world has space for these sorts of creations. And then I hopped on my bike and rode home, feeling the slightly cooler air rush up my skirt.

This post really belongs on a blog titled What I Saw Pushing My Bike Around In The Rain Today. As I was leaving this morning to meet S. at the coffee shop in the Marigny I thought to myself, remember to grab the patch kit and pump. Wish I’d heeded that call, because on the way home I popped my front tire at Lee Circle. As I was can-kicking my bike home it started to pour. Late afternoon rainstorms are a pleasant part of summer, but after huddling under a palm tree for twenty minutes, I was over it. I pushed my bike under the eaves of an apartment building On Baronne and Philip and snapped this picture of a mural reading “Be The Change You Seek.” I pass this all the time and find it both lovely and a little bit frustrating. The sentiment is of course a good one. Gandhi was right. We all have some power to make our world more like we want it to be, or at the very least and at the very last moment, refuse to live in the world we are in. At the same time, it isn’t enough for individuals to simply change themselves in order to change the world. We can’t just will ourselves a world without inequality, racism, sexism, and all the other structural forces that inhibit the change we seek. Riding around this city, it is impossible to miss this stuff. How do we balance a sense of personal efficacy and responsibility with a meaningful critique of structures of inequality that are made by people, but sometimes seem impervious to our very critique? I thought about this as I waited for the rain to stop, chatting with T., who came outside to sip a Sunday afternoon beer and tell me about some upcoming second lines he’ll be marching in next month. He also reminded me to bring my patch kit with me next time. Yes, sir. Excellent suggestion.

Tonight’s ride took me to dinner with A. and K. and then over to the coffee shop for a delightfully lazy evening of chatter in the cool(ish) breeze. My knees are feeling the pain these days, so it was good to take a day with only light riding. I snapped this picture of graffiti on the corner of Race and Magazine. There is graffiti all over this city. Somebody’s been painting the phrase “You Go, Girl” on buildings and signs all over the city. I am not a fan of this particular tag. I do like the new tag showing up around town that just says READ. Excellent advice. There there’s stuff like this, that is a little hard to make out, but doesn’t match other graffiti that I’ve seen, at least not yet. I like that people decorate the streets and power poles and empty walls, but not everyone does. I’m not sure, though, what makes some things public art and others graffiti, in the sense of defacement. The “Think That You Might Be Wrong” signs, for example, are considered public art and are covered by local news. But what makes that different from, say, this paint on the asphalt? I guess there’s nothing profound here. Turns out, it’s in the eye of the beholder. I popped a couple of over the counter painkillers for my poor, rickety knees, and rode home.

I rode my bike down to the Marigny tonight to see some experimental theater. Those two words together often send shivers up my spine, but I was in the mood to watch creative people doing creative things, so I was game. I showed up early to meet my friend M., so I decided to tool around the neighborhood for a bit. The bike lane on St. Claude is incredibly inviting, smooth, car-free, so I spent some time along that and then turned around and headed to the pre-show bar. On my way I stopped to take a picture of this community garden. Now this is an example of creative people doing creative things. We’ve got land, we’ve got a ridiculously plant-friendly climate, and we’ve got plenty of folks hungry for decent food. Enter the community garden, where people share the labor and share the harvest. I love these places. They are beautiful, they are efficient, they are friendly. I passed one in Mid-City last weekend that was a little different. A homeowner donated his/her lawn to a local grower who was using it to grow kale and chard for area restaurants. This too seems an interesting and creative model, helpfully meeting a whole bunch of needs. That’s what a community should do, it seems to me. As I rode my bike from this creative event to the other I wondered: since when is growing food on collective land some breakthrough creative concept? That’s pretty sad. And yet, after the show, I was still thinking about this garden and wishing I’d spent my evening sitting in it instead of where I’d been.

It was a beautiful day in New Orleans today, and I rode home from work with Bruce Springsteen’s Tenth Avenue Freeze Out in my ears and the air whizzing around me. These are the kinds of rides that make me thrilled to be alive, and to get to ride a bike. I know, I know, it sounds melodramatic, but that’s how it feels. Ok, enough of that. I stopped my ride to snap this picture of a very festive mini (really mini) van that I pass almost every day. When I first saw it, it was painted these Mardi Gras colors of green, purple, and gold. And then they added the Saints fleur de lys flames, and most recently, scooter platforms on the back. The Saints decorations appear to be sponsored by somebody, but otherwise the thing is it’s own art project. I’ve yet to see it driving anywhere, but I enjoy passing it, I think because the owner clearly has made a project out of his or her transportation. People do that here–make a project, a festival, a party, out of what other towns might see as ordinary. And as someone currently decorating one bike and fantasy-outfitting another, well, I can get behind this sort of thing.

Today was simply beautiful.  The sun was out and the air was warm and I put on a dress and hopped on my bike for a ride down to the Quarter for coffee and work.  On my way home I stopped at the Prospect 1 Welcome Center in the Hefler Warehouse on Magazine just uptown from Julia Street.  To be honest, I was just looking for a bathroom, but I ended up being blown away, again, by the art P.1 has brought to New Orleans.  The dark warehouse was virtually empty except for several large installation pieces, including this, Paul Villinski’s Dreamer.  I just loved this piece.  So much art coming from New Orleans is understandably representative of New Orleans during and just after Katrina.  Dreamer, for example, shares space with hauntingly realistic fabric house that looks like it’s melting away and smells of rot and a cynical human figure sitting in despair.  I’m not really one for redemption narratives, particularly where there is actually a steady abandonment.  But there’s something fanciful in this installation that is also part of the post-Katrina narrative, the hope that one might fly away.  Nothing wrong with dreaming, I think.  We need more dreams.  There’s no bathroom at the Welcome Center, but the CAC is right around the corner with free admission and an exhibit on the fourth floor that will make you cry.  Don’t miss it.

Today was another beautiful day in New Orleans, excellent for bike riding.  I took my bike to the gym up at Tulane.  It felt good to be back, tooling up St. Charles Avenue.  On my way home I passed these stairs on Loyola University’s lawn–”Steps Home” by Dawn Dedaux.  They are part of the Sculpture for New Orleans project where sculpture is displayed around town with the hopes of being purchased and donated for permanent exhibition.  Not too long ago I was sharing beers in the Marigny with some folks who are from here, and they were complaining about the amount of money spent on art lately.  The P.1 exhibitions, for example, represent huge outlays of cash.  What if that money were spent on rebuilding houses or streets or sewers or schools?  Why buy these representational stairs rather than real ones?  I understand that argument, of course, but at the same time, art has social, political, and spiritual value that matters and that is surely worth it.  I think the opposition between  paying for art and paying for life is ultimately false.  We shouldn’t have to choose between the two; we’ve got enough for both.  But it can be hard to pass these stairs and the stairs from yesterday and not feel a bit unsettled at the ways representation and reality continue to operate in New Orleans.

Tonight was a lovely night for a bike ride–cool and dark and cloudy and threatening rain.  That might not sound like a nice night for a ride, but it fit me perfectly.  This weekend is the New Orleans Fringe Festival, so I rode down to the Bywater to join M. for a puppet show.  It was lovely.  I then rode to the Marigny for a nightcap, and took this picture of the graffiti in the bathroom.  Lots of bathrooms have graffiti, but this one is really well decorated.  I have even wondered if perhaps the place was decorated like this.  How can one bathroom collect so much graffiti?  But then this is a bar where graffiti is welcome, so I suppose it has simply gathered there over the years.  Bars and restaurants choose to deal with graffiti in lots of ways.  Some are at perpetual war with it, painting regularly to hide the marks.  Other places seem to know graffiti is inevitable, so they put up chalkboards or paint the walls with chalkboard paint and provide chalk and erasers.  I prefer places like this, where we all know that not only will the walls be covered, but we are welcome to add.  I haven’t, but I’m glad others have and continue to do so.  The blank wall is common, you know.