NE ORLEANS BEAUTIFUL DREAMER

“Songs of the Rude World Heard Through the Day…Beautiful Dreamer…”
By
Debbie Lindsey
According to Abe Lincoln and his Hedgehog sidekick, “Your Dreams Miss You”. It is a clever television sleep aid advertisement and would catch my attention under any circumstance. But now it truly makes sense. It’s an idea I can wrap my head around because it’s so easy to miss your dreams, yet it’s a two-way street – you being missed by them as well.
Not all dreams play out upon a pillowcase stage. And not all insomnia occurs when the lights go out. A malaise can rob our daylight hours as viciously as sleeplessness. I know this because Honest Abe and the Hedgehog are staring me down right now.
I see waterlines everywhere, real and imagined. The coffee cup ringed with waterlines; the grimy Coppertone nimbus encircling the blue tile of the swimming pool; the calcified crust of sediment left lingering inside a half forgotten bottle of Merlot; all scream broken levees to me. And what’s worse is that I seem to willingly look for them.
I never thought of myself as a rubber-necker. Car wrecks and house fires were not for viewing; to gawk, stare, get in the way was in poor taste at best, and more to point, ghoulish. I am now the devastation diva, starring in my very own disaster film.
So, I figure the Dreams are missing me right about now. I am the insomniac unable to appreciate the diamonds in the refuse. Is the glass full or half full? I don’t know – all I see is its waterline.
But, in spite of myself my Dreams are about to woo me and seduce me back. Back to believing in living here or at least relishing every moment of reprieve from the gnawing negatives.
If my New Orleans dreams were to flash before my eyes they would be accompanied by music, the setting would be springtime, and if one event were to hold center stage it would be Jazz Fest. Spring and Jazz Fest are like milk and cookies—each can stand alone on their own merits, but hey they are great sex together.
Before this city’s dark side started to wear me out, before we were drowned like an unwanted litter of kittens, before all that, I could feel giddy with love just belonging here. And the feeling would reach euphoric proportions every year as I entered the Fair Grounds. Jazz Fest was and still is an annual dedication to New Orleans; a repetitive epiphany about how special this place is and therefore how special we are to live it.
They sang and played their hearts out for me last year. I found them in the Gospel tent, prancing as Indians, singing “Love for Sale”, doing a cooking demonstration, playing back-up for Paul Simon, dishing up my vegetarian red beans and rice. And despite their best efforts I have been out of touch with my Dreams for much of the past year. They tried to warn me that our Road Home would continue to be riddled with potholes and to not give up on them…but at times, I did.
My Dreams have enlisted assistance (outside the Fair Grounds and Spring) in their mission to soften my cynicism, fluff my pillow of memories. Meet their new recruit: Gretchen. Gretchen is everything this city needs right about now. As so many of our folks have been flung across the country with no means to maneuver the Road-Home-To-What?, those that did make it back are now questioning that decision. Not Gretchen, she made it back and has put super glue within her foothold.
She is a mirror of myself and the relationship I once had with my Dreams. She “gets” the city. Yet for some reason I pick apart my new friend’s slaphappy immersion, her baptism into our culture. I do this with a divorcee’s love-lost eye roll in the face of another’s love-at-first-sight verve. And still, she, the emissary, remains defiantly loyal to her new love, her Dream – New Orleans.
Funny thing about my Dreams, they nudge me and nip at my ankles when I least expect them. While a new friend, Jazz Fest, or spring fever might showcase or typify the positive and the potential it really comes down to the bits and pieces of everyday life. We all know too well the day in/day out splinters of crime, ineptness, broken water mains, broken lives that fester. But the small dear things like green parrots in flight, a brilliant street performance of “Caravan”, the smell of baking cakes drifting up from a sidewalk ventilation grate, the endless “Hey dawlin’”, all work hard to keep the nightmares at bay.
And then there are my friends.
Cultural stimulus aside, because all the feathers, fleur-de-lis and fanfare can not equal my friends here. My Dreams are the friends that hold you when your dog dies, remember your birthday even when you wanna forget it, worry over your cancer scare, rejoice in your good fortunes, and buy you that cold beer when ya feel like punching the world out.
Will my Dreams prevail; will any of our dreams prevail? We all came back with grand expectations and nervous anticipations. Dreams and nightmares. I guess all any of us can hope for are the occasional cease-fires. And when a new friend sees beyond the waterline, let her, encourage her. She is merely letting you know that your Dreams miss you.