How to swim with alligators.

New Orleans is where you go to disappear.  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ How to swim with alligators Jazz spilling, tree gazing, meet cute-ing and creative writing ​ --------------------------------------------------------------- ​[Funhouse](), the third single from my spoken-word album, releases this Friday. To ensure it finds your ears, [click here]() and then click "pre-save" wherever you listen to your music. --------------------------------------------------------------- Several weeks back, a reader sent me the following words of encouragement on a day I very much needed them... You are a canary in a coal mine that doesn't want to die. To say thank you for the small kindness she showed me, I've made an effort to sew the line somewhere in my writing. For writers, pretty lines like these become puzzle pieces. We turn them over in our pockets, until we can find them a home where they can be hugged fondly from all angles. I've finally found a place for this particular puzzle piece in the letter I'm writing to you now. The flight from Nashville to New Orleans feels less like a flight and more like a hop. You're in the air and then you're not. I hopped down to New Orleans Thursday to rendezvous with one of my best friends, [Taylor McFerran](). Every time I'm with Taylor, something noteworthy happens. I've thought seriously about why this may be––I've come to the conclusion it's because Taylor is constantly looking for noteworthy things to happen. He keeps a tiny notebook in his breast pocket at all times, where he scribbles down the peculiarities he comes across with the same fervor one could imagine Charles Darwin studied the Galapagos. I arrived a bit early to meet Taylor at an oyster bar. To kill some time, I ducked into a cigar shop a few doors down ran by a woman from Panama. She asked me what I smoked. I said the lightest thing she had. I followed her around as she unearthed two or three different cigars, held each to my nose and watched for my face to change. She knew which cigar I liked before I nodded yes. I bought two. While she cut them, she asked me where I was from. I said Nashville and she looked at me a bit confused, as if I had told a half-truth. I then divulged that my grandfather was from Syria and my grandmother, Japan. She found this answer more acceptable and smiled. I placed both cigars neatly in my chest pocket, told her thank you and left the way I came. Taylor, myself and his friend Daniella sat at a round marble table by the door, barely large enough to house the small vase of flowers atop of it and the cocktails we soon ordered. Daniella and Taylor both ordered martinis. I ordered a Sazerac poured in a glass washed with bone-marrow. It tasty faintly of bacon lard; the kind my Great Aunt Martha kept heaped in a mason jar beside her oven in Québec. Her cottage sat on a small lake called Le Lac Malfait. The summer I visited her, we would climb into her little boat and row out a ways, where we'd cast our lines and fish for trout. Once we had caught our breakfast, Aunt Martha would cut them, gut them, rinse them, butterfly them and then fry the trout in a heavy cast iron pan glistening with bacon fat. She would then fry the eggs in the trout fat. The Sazerac reminded me of trout and eggs in Québec. Taylor, Daniella and I ordered a dozen oysters. All petite. If you've ever had oysters, you know there is such a thing as too big an oyster. When I eat an oyster, I don't want to feel like I'm swallowing the luge of some sickly god. An oyster––at least when eaten in its raw form––should never be so big that you fear choking on it. Fortunately, every oyster we had at Fives was manageable. The following evening, Taylor and I unsheathed the Cuban cigars I had purchased the night prior, lit them, stood still for a moment in an alcove of a side street whose brick road looked as if it was built by a drunken mason. We watched heaps of people pass by like fast-moving clouds as we blew clouds of our own. We then chose a direction and began walking. We didn't stop walking for seven or eight miles. To attempt to recite everything we witnessed in the three hours we wandered the streets gives me anxiety. Jazz spilling out into the streets. Sex workers peddling services. Fortune tellers turning over tarot cards. Lovers grabbing fistfuls of ass and breast and groin and back and thigh. Purple, gold and green beads flying through the air like serpents falling from a tree. Party-goers heaped like drunken pigeons atop balconies. Vendors hawking roasted meats. Piss and vomit and beer trickling along sidewalks like ghastly brooks. At one point in the night, I turned to Taylor and said... I don't know if we are in heaven or hell. I walked a bit further and decided it was neither but instead some crazy, beautiful purgatory. The people of New Orleans party as if the world is coming to an end––and, for them, it is. Each year, the city sinks another two to three inches. There is a very real possibility that in our lifetime, the city will become something of an Atlantis. You talk to the locals there and they are aware of their fate, yet they're choosing to go down with the ship. In a world where allegiance to anything seems to be non-existent, the people of New Orleans left me feeling endlessly inspired. One of our cab drivers had a 12 inch scar on his arm as shiny as a newly minted penny. He was born and raised in New Orleans and refused to leave the city, even in the wake of Katrina. During our drive, he looked at Taylor and I and said... Eight days of darkness. Hell. Water piled seven stories high. People clinging to their mattresses. We're built a little different here. You go through that and nothing can hurt you. We've swum with alligators. As he spoke to us, his eyes were framed in the rearview mirror like some wild bird peering out of a cage of its own making. He was a canary in a coal mine that doesn't want to die. God bless New Orleans. By [Cole Schafer](​ P.S. Don't forget to pre-save [Funhouse](). --------------------------------------------------------------- Meet Cute Become the kind of writer readers fall in love with ​ If you enjoyed the piece above and you'd like to challenge yourself to turn your life experiences into prose, you should really consider enrolling in [Meet Cute](=). Illustrated by an A.I. interpretation of the pop artist Roy Lichtenstein and written by yours truly, Meet Cute is a creative writing guide that reads like your favorite book. It utilizes 16 raw and wildly entertaining stories, along with invaluable writing lessons and thought-provoking prompts to help you fall in love with the craft of writing while becoming the kind of writer that readers will fall in love with. [ENROLL NOW](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- The terrific art of tree gazing How to change your perspective The same tree can look like a dozen different trees depending on your perspective. Press your nose against the trunk of a tree, you will see only chunky bark. Lie beneath a tree and look up, you will see intersections made up of branches and leaves. Climb the tree, take a seat on one of its outstretched limbs and look down, you will see its roots making ripples in the Earth likes ocean waves. Stand 200 yards back from a tree, you will see a tree that looks less like a tree and more like a large shrub or bush in the distance. If you feel you're becoming pigeonholed in how you approach your work and life, change your perspective. If you normally workout at the end of the day, try working out at the start of it. If you normally listen to Bob Dylan, try listening to Chet Baker. If you normally start working after a cup of coffee, try skipping the caffeine and working in a sleepy, dream state. If you normally read self-help books, try cracking open a good piece of fiction. [WHAT DO YOU SEE?](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- Patience follows acceptance On resisting the urge to slam on your horn ​ Impatient people have great difficulty accepting things as they are. To relieve themselves of their anxiety, they make rash decisions in order to give themselves a false sense of control over circumstances that are completely out of their control. Think about the frustrated driver smashing his horn in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Never in the history of locomotion has a "honk" managed to undo a traffic jam. Never. Yet, despite this truth, pissed off drivers still honk their horns at a standstill. Why? Because it makes them feel like they have some sort of "say" over the unfortunate circumstance they've found themselves in. We honk constantly in our lives when things don't go our way. We honk because it's easier to honk than to find patience. Patience is having the awareness to notice life's traffic jams and accepting there is nothing you can do to change them. Patience is letting go and then turning on the radio. [BE PATIENT]() --------------------------------------------------------------- [[linkedin]​]() ​ [Update your email preferences]( or unsubscribe [here](​ © 2024 The Process 113 Cherry St #92768, Seattle, WA 98104-2205